TYPES   OF  THE   ESSAY 


SELECTED   AND    EDITED   BY 

BENJAMIN  A.  HEYDRICK,  A.M. 

HEAD    OF    ENGLISH    DEPARTMENT,    HIGH    SCHOOL   OF    COMMERCE 
NEW    YORK  CITY 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON  ATLANTA 

BAN  FRANCISCO  DALLAS 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  »T 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America, 
K 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION — 

FAQS 

WHAT  Is  AN  ESSAY? vii 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  ESSAY viii 

THE  TYPES  OP  ESSAYS xi 

How  TO  STUDY  THESE  ESSAYS xiii 

THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY — 

A  DAY  IN  LONDON Richard  Steek     .   .  3  V  . 

A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG  .  Charles  Lamb  ...  13  V- 

OLD  CHINA Charles  Lamb  ...  25 

MY    FIRST    ACQUAINTANCE    WITH 

POETS William  Hazlitt  .   .  35 

ON  GETTING  UP  ON  COLD  MORNINGS  Leigh  Hunt ....  63 

ON  A  LAZY  IDLE  BOY W.  M .  Thackeray  .  71 

A  COLLEGE  MAGAZINE R.  L.  Stevenson  .   .  83 

MY  LAST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOL- 
MISTRESS   0.  W .  Holmes    .   .  95 

THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY — 

THE  SKY John  Ruskin  ...  105 

THE  SITE  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  .   .   .  J.H.  Newman  .   .  115 

THE  SEA  FOGS R.  L.  Stevenson  .   .  125 

BRUTE  NEIGHBORS H.  D.  Thoreau   .   .  133 

v 


M18OO4G 


vi  CONTENTS 

THE  CHAKACTEK  SKETCH — 

PAGE 

THE  MAN  IN  BLACK Oliver  Goldsmith  .  .  147  f 

THE  HUNTER'S  FAMILY R.  L.  Stevenson  .   .  153 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THEODORE  ROOSE- 
VELT      Julian  Street  .    .    ,  165 

THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY — 

WHAT  AND  How  TO  READ  ....  John  Ruskin  ...  175 

BUNYAN'S  "PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS"  T.  B.  Macaulay  .  .  193  , 

H.  G.  WELLS'S  "OUTLINE  OF  HIS- 
TORY " J.  Salwyn  Schapiro  209 

THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY — 

FEMALE  ORATORS Joseph  Addison  .    .  237 

LIVING  IN  A  PAIR  OF  SCALES    .   .  Joseph  Addison  .    .  245 

THE  STAGE  COACH Richard  Steek     .    .  253 

THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY — 

STUDIES;  TRUTH;  TRAVEL;  RICHES; 

GREAT  PLACE;  FRIENDSHIP     .    .  Francis  Bacon    .    .  259 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  B«®KS     .    .    .  Thomas  Carlyle  .    .  283 

SELF-RELIANCE  .  . R.  W.  Emerson  .   ,  295 

AMERICAN  AND  BRITON John  Galsworthy    .  329 

Is  THE  WORLD  GROWING  BETTER?   Henry  van  Dyke  .  .  349 

READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS 371 


INTRODUCTION 

WHAT  IS  AN  ESSAY? 

When  you  write  a  letter  to  a  friend,  you  tell  him  what 
you  and  others  have  been  doing,  what  you  have  seen, 
and  what  you  think  about  various  things.  People  who 
write  books  do  the  same  thing  on  a  larger  scale.  A  book 
that  tells  what  you  have  done  is  an  autobiography;  a 
book  telling  what  others  have  done  is  biography  or  his- 
tory, or  if  it  deals  with  imaginary  people,  it  is  fiction.  A 
book  telling  what  you  have  seen  is  travel,  and  a  book  tell- 
ing what  you  think  on  various  topics  is  a  book  of  essays. 
Yet  not  all  books  giving  people's  thoughts  are  essays. 
If  a  man  writes  a  book  on  religion  or  philosophy,  for 
example,  a  book  made  up  of  various  chapters,  arrranged 
in  such  order  as  to  form  a  systematic  and  complete 
treatment  of  the  subject,  that  book  would  not  be  called 
an  essay  but  a  treatise.  The  word  essay  comes  from 
the  French  essai,  an  attempt,  an  endeavor.  So  Francis 
Bacon,  the  first  English  essayist,  said  in  the  preface  to  his 
book:  "To  write  just  treatises  requireth  leisure  in  the 
writer  and  leisure  in  the  reader,  .  .  .  which  is  the  cause 
that  hath  made  me  choose  to  write  certain  brief  notes, 
set  down  rather  significantly  than  curiously,  which  I 
have  called  essays." 

This  gives  us  the  second  characteristic  of  the  essay:  it 
is  brief,  and  does  not  attempt  to  treat  a  subject  either 
completely  or  systematically.  In  fact,  an  essay  is  a 
sort  of  literary  go-as-you-please.  An  essayist  may,  like 
Montaigne,  announce  as  his  subject  "Coaches,"  and 
proceed  to  write  about  sneezing,  the  entertainments  of 
Roman  emperors,  and  the  conquest  of  Mexico,  with  only 
a  brief  mention  of  coaches.  And  yet  while  the  essayist 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

may  seem  to  be  careless  how  he  begins  or  where  he  leaves 
off  his  subject,  there  is  one  thing  that  he  is  always  careful 
about,  his  style.  More  than  any  other  form  of  prose,  the 
essay  demands  mastery  of  style.  How  the  thing  is  said 
is  as  important — often  more  important,  than  what  is 
said.  This  style  may  take  many  forms,  from  the  stately, 
thought-weighted  sentences  of  Bacon  to  the  whimsical 
turns  of  Charles  Lamb;  it  may  have  the  calm  and  beauty 
of  a  Newman,  or  the  passionate  eloquence  of  Carlyle:  in 
each  case  we  feel  that  the  style  is  the  perfect  medium  for 
the  thought. 

In  its  lack  of  logical  method,  its  freedom  to  stray  hither 
and  thither,  the  essay  is  like  good  conversation.  It  is 
like  conversation  again  in  its  tone,  which  may  be  now 
serious,  now  humorous,  now  merely  playful.  Some  essay- 
ists, like  Ruskin,  are  always  serious;  some,  like  Lamb, 
are  nearly  always  humorous;  some,  like  Addison,  are  both 
by  turns.  And  the  same  essay  may  be  partly  serious, 
partly  humorous.  As  you  read  these  essays,  then,  be  on 
the  watch  for  a  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

To  sum  up  the  characteristics  of  the  essay,  we  may  say 
that  it  is  a  short  piece  of  prose,  not  attempting  to  treat 
its  subject  completely  nor  logically,  but  rather  giving  the 
author's  opinions  upon  it;  opinions  which  may  or  may  not 
be  serious,  but  which  are  set  forth  with  a  high  degree  of 
literary  art.  It  usually  reveals  more  or  less  of  the  per- 
sonality of  the  author,  and  in  this  respect  corresponds 
in  prose  to  the  lyric  in  poetry. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  ESSAY 

The  essay  as  a  form  in  modern  literature  began  with 
a  French  writer,  Michel  de  Montaigne,  who  in  1580 
published  two  volumes  entitled  Essais.  These  dealt  with 
such  subjects  as  Fortune,  Cannibals,  Names,  Smells, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  ESSAY  ix 

Liars,  Virtue,  and  the  like.  The  book  was  soon  trans- 
lated into  English,  and  had  a  marked  influence  upon  Eng- 
lish writers.  Francis  Bacon,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  Steven- 
son were  readers  of  Montaigne,  and  acknowledge  their 
debt  to  him. 

The  first  English  writer  of  essays  was  Francis  Bacon, 
whose  Essays,  or  Counsels  Civil  and  Moral  appeared  in 
1625.  This  little  volume  contained  sixty  essays,  in  length 
from  two  to  ten  pages;  the  subjects  were  all  general, 
such  as  Studies,  Riches,  Love,  Great  Place.  The  tone 
of  the  essays  was  grave;  one  seems  to  hear  the  voice  of 
the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England  delivering  his  wise 
verdicts  upon  human  affairs.  And  of  all  Bacon's  works, 
which  number  fifteen  large  volumes,  dealing  with  science 
and  philosophy,  written  by  the  wisest  man  of  his  time, 
only  this  slender  book  of  essays  survives  to  be  read  to- 
day. 

From  the  time  of  Sir  Francis  Bacon  to  the  beginning 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  occasional  volumes  of  essays 
appeared.  Such  were  the  Religio  Medici  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne;  Several  Discourses  by  Way  of  Essays,  by  Abra- 
ham Cowley,  and  the  Miscellanea  of  Sir  William  Temple. 
But  the  great  development  of  the  essay  came  with  the 
rise  of  periodical  literature  in  England. 

In  our  day,  with  the  newspapers  thrust  into  our  hands 
twice  a  day,  and  with  newsstands  piled  with  weekly  and 
monthly  journals,  it  is  hard  to  imagine  a  time  when 
neither  newspaper  nor  magazine  existed.  Yet  in  1688 
this  was  exactly  the  situation  in  England.  Newspapers 
were  the  first  to  appear;  then  in  1691  came  the  first  maga- 
zine, the  Athenian  Gazette,  a  little  sheet  made  up  chiefly 
of  questions  and  answers.  In  1704  Daniel  Defoe,  the 
author  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  began  a  journal  called  A 
Weekly  Review  of  the  Affairs  of  France,  which  contained, 
in  addition  to  the  news  from  Europe,  a  short  essay  or 


x  INTRODUCTION 

editorial.  This  idea  was  still  further  developed  by 
Richard  Steele,  who  in  1709  began  the  publication  of 
the  Taller,  a  weekly  paper  consisting  of  a  single  large 
sheet  printed  on  both  sides,  containing  a  paragraph  of 
news  and  one  or  more  essays.  After  a  few  numbers  of 
the  paper  had  appeared,  Steele  was  aided  by  his  friend 
Joseph  Addison.  The  Toiler  became  popular;  its  editors 
saw  an  opportunity  for  improving  it,  and  in  1711  they 
discontinued  the  Toiler  and  began  the  Spectator.  This 
was  published  at  first  three  times  a  week,  then  daily;  it 
contained  no  news,  merely  a  single  essay,  and  a  few  adver- 
tisements. The  essays  covered  a  wide  range  of  topics. 
They  did  not  touch  politics,  but  with  this  exception  they 
treated  almost  every  topic  of  interest  to  the  Londoner  of 
the  day.  There  were  papers  on  duelling,  on  the  Italian 
opera,  on  fashionable  slang,  on  style  in  women's  dress, 
on  the  treatment  of  servants,  on  education,  on  courtship 
and  marriage.  And  in  practically  all  these  essays  the 
writers  had  the  same  aim  as  an  editorial  writer  of  to-day: 
to  bring  to  public  attention  some  wrong  or  folly  that 
ought  to  be  corrected.  The  editors  did  not  deal  with 
great  public  questions,  or  with  crimes  punishable  by  law, 
but  with  matters  of  behavior  and  the  customs  of  the  time. 
These  papers  thus  show  a  new  type  of  essay:  that  which  is 
written  to  influence  public  opinion  in  some  particular 
direction.  This  may  be  called  the  editorial  essay. 

The  success  of  the  Spectator  led  to  many  imitations. 
Dr.  Johnson  wrote  the  Rambler  and  the  Idler.  Oliver 
Goldsmith  wrote  a  series  of  papers  called  The  Citizen  of 
the  World,  and  there  were  hundreds  of  others.  But  none 
of  them  equalled  the  work  of  Addison  and  Steele,  the 
founders  of  the  type. 

The  next  development  of  the  essay  was  also  a  result 
of  the  development  of  periodical  literature.  The  early 
journals  were  affairs  of  only  a  few  pages.  But  with  the 


THE  TYPES  OF  ESSAYS  xi 

beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  we  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  magazines,  published  monthly  or  quarterly, 
of  a  size  to  permit  the  publication  of  long  articles.  The 
Edinburgh  Review  was  established  in  1802;  the  Quarterly 
Review  in  1809,  Blackwood's  Magazine  in  1817,  the  London 
Magazine  in  1820.  The  rivalry  between  these  journals 
led  them  to  pay  contributors  liberally,  and  to  allow  much 
freedom  to  these  writers.  Hence  such  authors  as  Ma- 
caulay,  Lamb,  De  Quinoey,  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt  were 
stimulated  to  do  their  best.  Macaulay,  with  his  wide 
reading  and  his  marvellous  memory,  could  write  for  the 
Edinburgh  a  book  review  in  which  he  discussed  not  only 
the  book  itself,  and  all  the  subjects  mentioned  in  it,  but 
other  subjects  which  the  author  should  have  discussed, 
but  did  not.  Charles  Lamb,  who  by  day  was  a  book- 
keeper, by  night  read  his  favorite  authors,  and  wrote  his 
whimsical  essays  for  the  London  Magazine.  Hazlitt  and 
De  Quincey,  both  great  readers  and  famous  as  talkers, 
could  pour  out  their  talk  on  paper  at  the  rate  of  a  guinea 
a  printed  page.  So  with  the  advent  of  the  modern  maga- 
zine came  the  full  development  of  the  critical  and  descrip- 
tive and  personal  essays  as  we  know  them  to-day.  The 
magazine  has  continued  to  be  the  medium  for  the  first 
publication  of  almost  all  essays.  Carlyle  published  his 
Sartor  Resartus  in  Eraser's  Magazine ;  Thackeray's  Round- 
about Papers  were  written  for  the  Comhill;  Stevenson's 
earlier  essays  appeared  in  the  Comhill,  his  later  ones  in 
Scribner's;  Holmes Js  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table  was 
published  in  the  Atlantic,  and  Van  Dyke's  essays  in  Scrib- 
ner's. 

THE  TYPES  OF  ESSAYS 

When  we  read  Lamb's  essay  on  Old  China,  we  do  not 
learn  very  much  about  porcelain,  but  we  learn  a  good  deal 
about  Charles  Lamb,  his  likes  and  dislikes.  Such  essays, 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

aiming  primarily  to  entertain,  and  revealing  the  person- 
ality of  the  author,  are  called  personal  essays.  To  this 
group  belong  the  writings  of  Thackeray,  of  Hazlitt,  and 
most  of  Stevenson.  As  we  read  their  essays  we  grow 
better  and  better  acquainted  with  the  writers.  Mon- 
taigne, who  was  the  first  to  write  essays  of  this  type, 
says  in  the  introduction  to  his  book,  "It  is  myself  I  por- 
tray." So  the  personal  essay,  or,  as  it  is  sometimes 
called,  the  familiar  essay,  forms  a  distinct  class,  and  in- 
cludes some  of  the  most  noted  essays  in  English  litera- 
ture. 

The  descriptive  essay  is  self-explanatory.  It  may  deal 
with  the  larger  aspects  of  nature,  as  Ruskin's  description 
of  the  sky,  or  with  animals,  as  Thoreau's  Brute  Neigh- 
bors, or  indeed  with  any  created  thing.  It  differs  from 
pure  description  in  that  you  are  always  conscious  of  the 
author:  he  tells  what  he  thinks  as  well  as  what  he  sees. 
Thus  Thoreau  begins  by  asking  questions  about  nature, 
and  Ruskin  closes  with  an  appeal  to  let  the  beauty  of  the 
sky  strengthen  our  faith.  Such  touches  mark  the  writ- 
ing as  belonging  to  the  essay  type. 

The  character  sketch  differs  from  the  description  in 
that  while  the  description  deals  with  the  outward  appear- 
ance, the  character  sketch  deals  with  the  inner  man. 
It  may  have  as  its  subject  an  imaginary  individual,  as 
Goldsmith's  Man  in  Black,  or  real  persons,  as  in  Julian 
Street's  portrait  of  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

In  the  critical  essay,  the  subject  is  usually  a  work  of 
art.  It^may  be  a  book,  a  painting,  an  opera,  a  statue,  or 
an  architectural  work.  When  Macaulay  wrote  a  review 
of  a  new  edition  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  or  when  a 
critic  of  to-day  writes  an  account  of  a  new  book  or  play, 
each  tells  us  something  about  the  contents  of  the  book,' 
and  in  addition  gives  his  opinion,  in  the  form  of  praise 
or  blame.  Or  the  critical  essay  may  be  general,  as  when 


HOW  TO  STUDY  ESSAYS  xiii 

Ruskm  tells  us  how  to  choose  books  and  how  to  read 
them. 

Another  type  is  the  editorial  essay,  or  that  which  is 
published  in  a  periodical  with  the  aim  of  influencing  pub- 
lic opinion.  It  is  necessary  to  distinguish  between  the 
editorial  and  the  editorial  essay.  Most  editorials  are 
really  brief  arguments:  they  are  plain  in  style,  they  aim 
at  convincing  their  readers  and  nothing  more.  Such 
articles  cannot  be  called  essays.  But  the  writers  of  the 
Spectator  aimed  to  entertain  their  readers  quite  as  much 
as  to  persuade  them;  they  gave  careful  attention  to  their 
style,  and  they  so  imbued  what  they  wrote  with  their 
own  personality  that  it  has  power  to  charm  us  yet.  There 
are  occasional  articles  of  the  essay  type  on  the  editorial 
pages  of  our  newspapers:  sometimes  a  column  regularly 
appears,  such  as  the  "Topics  of  the  Times"  in  the  New 
York  Times,  made  up  of  brief  papers  which  in  mood 
and  form  are  true  essays. 

The  reflective  essay  differs  from  the  others  in  two 
respects:  its  subjects  are  general,  often  abstract,  and  its 
tone  is  serious.  Francis  Bacon  writing  upon  Studies, 
Emerson  writing  upon  Self-Reliance,  Carlyle  writing 
upon  the  Influence  of  Books,  John  Galsworthy  writing 
upon  the  differences  between  Americans  and  English- 
men, are  examples  of  the  reflective  essay  at  its  best.  In 
each  case  the  writer  is  a  man  with  a  philosophic  mind, 
one  who  looks  beneath  the  appearance  of  things  to  find 
realities;  each  has  thought  deeply  upon  an  important  sub- 
ject, and  in  the  essay  gives  his  matured  conclusions. 

HOW  TO  STUDY  THESE  ESSAYS 

First,  do  not  expect  to  find  a  story.  Short  stories  are 
delightful— and  simple.  Anybody  can  read  them;  a  child 
can  understand  them.  A  taste  for  essays  is  like  a  taste 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


for  olives:  it  must  be  cultivated.  An  essay  requires  more 
attention  to  read  than  a  story,  and  it  repays  you  by  giving 
you  more  to  think  about. 

The  essays  in  each  group  should  be  read  with  a  different 
purpose.  In  the  personal  essays,  ask  yourself  what  each 
one  shows  about  the  man  who  wrote  it.  How  many  of 
these  experiences  are  like  your  own?  What  bits  of 
humor  do  you  find?  What  ideas  that  are  well  ex- 
pressed? 

For  the  descriptive  essays,  read  slowly  and  try  to  see 
with  your  imagination  the  pictures  presented.  Recall 
similar  sights  you  have  seen.  Try  to  write  something 
yourself  in  imitation  of  one  of  these  descriptions. 

In  reading  a  character  sketch,  ask  yourself  such  ques- 
tions as  these:  What  are  the  chief  traits  of  the  person 
portrayed?  How  are  these  made  clear,  by  stating  them 
or  by  giving  instances  to  illustrate  the  point?  Why  did 
the  writer  choose  this  particular  person  as  his  subject? 
Does  he  give  his  opinion  of  the  person  directly,  or  does 
he  let  you  infer  it? 

In  the  critical  essays,  note  how  fully  the  writers  tell 
about  the  books  they  discuss.  Few  books  are  reviewed 
at  such  length  as  Professor  Schapiro's  review  of  Wells's 
History,  and  few  are  reviewed  so  well.  What  qualifica- 
tions should  one  have  to  review  a  book?  What  should  be 
his  aim:  to  tell  the  contents  of  a  book?  to  praise  it  so  that 
it  may  sell?  to  attack  it?  to  show  his  own  cleverness?  to 
point  out  its  merits  and  faults  without  prejudice?  Which 
of  these  aims  is  seen  in  Macaulay's  review?  in  Schapiro's? 
Has  either  one  an  introduction?  a  conclusion?  Point 
out  the  extent  of  each.  Compare  these  reviews  with 
other  essays  as  regards  logical  arrangement. 

For  the  editorial  essays,  state  in  a  sentence  the  point 
which  the  writer  wished  to  make.  Why  did  he  introduce 
imaginary  characters?  What  subjects  might  engage  the 


HOW  TO  STUDY  ESSAYS  xv 

attention  of  the  Spectator  to-day?  Try  to  treat  one  of 
them  in  the  Spectator  manner. 

The  reflective  essay  demands  careful  reading,  sentence 
by  sentence,  to  get  its  meaning.  As  you  read,  note  sen- 
tences that  contain  ideas  new  to  you,  or  particularly 
well  expressed,  and  copy  them  into  a  note-book.  Form 
the  habit  of  making  quotations  from  what  you  read. 
As  you  finish  each  essay,  ask  yourself  what  new  ideas  you 
have  gained.  What  do  essays  give  you  that  fiction  does 
not? 

The  writers  in  this  book  represent  the  leading  essayists 
of  England  and  America.  In  the  biographies  of  these  au- 
thors, given  in  the  notes,  you  will  find  the  titles  of  various 
books  of  essays  written  by  these  men;  other  volumes  of 
essays  are  given  in  the  list  at  the  end  of  the  book.  Some 
of  these  books  you  will  read  in  the  library,  some  of  them 
you  ought  to  own. 


THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

RICHARD  STEELE 
A  DAY  IN  LONDON 


Richard  Steele  (1672-1729)  was  born  in  Dublin.  At 
twelve  years  of  age  he  was  sent  to  the  Charterhouse  School 
in  London,  where  he  met  Joseph  Addison  and  the  two  be- 
came fast  friends.  He  entered  Oxford,  but  left  without 
a  degree;  soon  afterward  he  entered  the  army.  After 
some  years  Captain  Steele  of  the  Guards  became  inter- 
ested in  writing.  Several  of  his  plays  were  produced  at 
the  Drury  Lane  Theatre:  the  best  of  these  was  a  comedy, 
The  Tender  Husband.  Encouraged  by  success,  Steele  re- 
signed from  the  army  and  devoted  himself  to  literature. 
He  knew  Pope  and  Swift  and  most  of  the  writers  of  the 
day,  and  still  kept  up  his  friendship  with  Addison.  In 
1709  he  started  a  paper  of  his  own,  the  Tatler,  which  was 
the  beginning  of  the  periodical  essay.  (See  Introduction, 
p.  x.)  This  was  later  followed  by  the  Spectator ;  to  both 
periodicals  Addison  was  a  frequent  contributor,  but  the 
plan  was  Steele's  and  he  first  sketched  the  members  of 
the  famous  Spectator  Club.  In  the  first  volume  of  the 
Tatler  Steele  thus  set  forth  its  purpose: 

"The  general  purpose  of  this  paper  is  to  expose  the 
false  arts  of  life,  to  pull  off  the  disguises  of  cunning, 
vanity  and  affectation,  and  to  recommend  a  general 
simplicity  in  our  dress,  our  discourse  and  our  behavior." 

But  Steele  was  not  always  bent  upon  reforming  society. 
In  the  paper  here  quoted,  as  in  many  others,  he  writes  to 
entertain  his  readers,  and  at  the  end  he  tries  desperately 
to  find  a  moral.  This  essay  gives  an  account  of  a  day 
of  his  own  life:  reading  between  the  lines,  we  learn  not 
a  little  about  lively  Dick  Steels. 


RICHARD  STEELE 

A  DAY  IN  LONDON 

(From  the  Toiler) 

It  is  an  inexpressible  pleasure  to  know  a  little  of  the 
world,  and  be  of  no  character  or  significancy  in  it. 

To  be  ever  unconcerned,  and  ever  looking  on  new  ob- 
jects with  an  endless  curiosity,  is  a  delight  known  only 
to  those  who  are  turned  for  speculation:  nay,  they  who 
enjoy  it  must  value  things  only  as  they  are  the  objects 
of  speculation,  without  drawing  any  worldly  advantage 
to  themselves  from  them,  but  just  as  they  are  what  con- 
tribute to  their  amusement,  or  the  improvement  of  the 
mind.  I  lay  one  night  last  week  at  Richmond;  and  being 
restless,  not  out  of  dissatisfaction,  but  a  certain  busy 
inclination  one  sometimes  has,  I  rose  at  four  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  took  boat  for  London,  with  a  resolution  to  rove 
by  boat  and  coach  for  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours, 
till  the  many  different  objects  I  must  needs  meet  with 
should  tire  my  imagination,  and  give  me  an  inclination 
to  a  repose  more  profound  than  I  was  at  that  time  capa- 
ble of.  I  beg  people's  pardon  for  an  odd  humor  I  am 
guilty  of,  and  was  often  that  day,  which  is  saluting  any 
person  whom  I  like,  whether  I  know  him  or  not.  This 
is  a  particularity  which  would  be  tolerated  in  me,  if  they 
considered  that  the  greatest  pleasure  I  know  I  receive 
at  my  eyes,  and  that  I  am  obliged  to  an  agreeable  person 
for  coming  abroad  into  my  view,  as  another  is  for  a  visit 
of  conversation  at  their  own  houses. 

3 


4  J/TH$  PERSONAL  ESSAY 


The  hours  of  the  day  and  night  are  taken  up  in  the 
cities  of  London  and  Westminster,  by  people  as  different 
from  each  other  as  those  who  are  born  in  different  cen- 
turies. Men  of  six  o'clock  give  way  to  those  of  nine, 
they  of  nine  to  the  generation  of  twelve;  and  they  of 
twelve  disappear,  and  make  room  for  the  fashionable 
world,  who  have  made  two  o'clock  the  noon  of  the  day. 

When  we  first  put  off  from  shore,  we  soon  fell  in  with 
a  fleet  of  gardeners,  bound  for  the  several  market  ports 
of  London;  and  it  was  the  most  pleasing  scene  imaginable 
to  see  the  cheerfulness  with  which  those  industrious 
people  plied  their  way  to  a  certain  sale  of  their  goods. 
The  banks  on  each  side  are  as  well  peopled,  and  beautified 
with  as  agreeable  plantations,  as  any  spot  on  the  earth;  but 
the  Thames  itself,  loaded  with  the  product  of  each  shore, 
added  very  much  to  the  landscape.  It  was  very  easy  to 
observe  by  their  sailing,  and  the  countenances  of  the 
ruddy  virgins,  who  were  supercargoes,  the  parts  of  the 
town  to  which  they  were  bound.  There  was  an  air  in 
the  purveyors  for  Covent-garden,  who  frequently  con- 
verse with  morning  rakes,  very  unlike  the  seeming  so- 
briety of  those  bound  for  Stocks-market. 

Nothing  remarkable  happened  in  our  voyage;  but  I 
landed  with  ten  sail  of  apricot-boats,  at  Strand-bridge, 
after  having  put  in  at  Nine-Elms,  and  taken  in  melons, 
consigned  by  Mr.  Cuffe,  of  that  place,  to  Sarah  Sewell 
and  Company,  at  their  stall  in  Covent-garden.  We 
arrived  at  Strand-bridge  at  six  of  the  clock,  and  were 
unloading,  when  the  hackney-coachmen  of  the  fore- 
going night  took  their  leave  of  each  other  at  the  Dark- 
house,  to  go  to  bed  before  the  day  was  too  far  spent. 
Chimney-sweepers  passed  by  us  as  we  made  up  to  the 
market,  and  some  raillery  happened  between  one  of  the 
fruit-wenches  and  those  black  men  about  the  Devil  and 
Eve,  with  allusion  to  their  several  professions.  I  could 


RICHARD  STEELE  5 

not  believe  any  place  more  entertaining  than  Covent- 
garden;  where  I  strolled  from  one  fruit-shop  to  another, 
with  crowds  of  agreeable  young  women  around  me,  who 
were  purchasing  fruit  for  their  respective  families. 

It  was  almost  eight  of  the  clock  before  I  could  leave 
that  variety  of  objects.  I  took  coach  and  followed  a 
young  lady,  who  tripped  into  another  just  before  me,  at- 
tended by  her  maid.  I  saw  immediately  she  was  of  the 
family  of  the  Vainloves.  There  are  a  set  of  these,  who, 
of  all  things,  affect  the  play  of  Blind-man's-buff,  and 
leading  men  into  love  for  they  know  not  whom,  who  are 
fled  they  know  not  where.  This  sort  of  woman  is  usually 
a  jaunty  slattern;  she  hangs  on  her  clothes,  plays  her 
head,  varies  her  posture,  and  changes  place  incessantly, 
and  all  with  an  appearance  of  striving  at  the  same  time 
to  hide  herself,  and  yet  give  you  to  understand  she  is  in 
humor  to  laugh  at  you.  You  must  have  often  seen  the 
coachmen  make  signs  with  their  fingers,  as  they  drive 
by  each  other,  to  intimate  how  much  they  have  got  that 
day.  They  can  carry  on  that  language  to  give  intelli- 
gence where  they  are  driving.  In  an  instant  my  coach- 
man took  the  wink  to  pursue;  and  the  lady's  driver  gave 
the  hint  that  he  was  going  through  Long-acre  toward 
St.  James's;  while  he  whipped  up  James-street,  we  drove 
for  King-street,  to  save  the  pass  at  St.  Martin's-lane. 
The  coachmen  took  care  to  meet,  jostle,  and  threaten 
each  other  for  way,  and  be  entangled  at  the  end  of  New- 
port-street and  Long-acre.  The  fright,  you  must  believe, 
brought  down  the  lady's  coach-door,  and  obliged  her, 
with  her  mask  off,  to  inquire  into  the  bustle, — when  she 
sees  the  man  she  would  avoid.  The  tackle  of  the  coach- 
window  is  so  bad  she  cannot  draw  it  up  again,  and  she 
drives  on  sometimes  wholly  discovered,  and  sometimes 
half-escaped,  according  to  the  accident  of  carriages  in 
her  way.  One  of  these  ladies  keeps  her  seat  in  a  hackney- 


6  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

coach  as  well  as  the  best  rider  does  on  a  managed  horse. 
The  laced  shoe  on  her  left  foot,  with  a  careless  gesture, 
just  appearing  on  the  opposite  cushion,  held  her  both 
firm,  and  in  a  proper  attitude  to  receive  the  next  jolt. 

As  she  was  an  excellent  coach-woman,  many  were  the 
glances  at  each  other  which  we  had  for  an  hour  and  a 
half,  in  all  parts  of  the  town,  by  the  skill  of  our  drivers; 
till  at  last  my  lady  was  conveniently  lost,  with  notice 
from  her  coachman  to  ours  to  make  off,  and  he  should 
hear  where  she  went.  This  chase  was  now  at  an  end: 
and  the  fellow  who  drove  her  came  to  us,  and  discovered 
that  he  was  ordered  to  come  again  in  an  hour,  for  that 
she  was  a  silk-worm.  I  was  surprised  with  this  phrase, 
but  found  it  was  a  cant  among  the  hackney  fraternity  for 
their  best  customers,  women  who  ramble  twice  or  thrice 
a  week  from  shop  to  shop,  to  turn  over  all  the  goods  in 
town  without  buying  anything.  The  silk-worms  are,  it 
seems,  indulged  by  the  tradesmen;  for,  though  they  never 
buy,  they  are  ever  talking  of  new  silks,  laces,  and  ribbons, 
and  serve  the  owners  in  getting  them  customers,  as  their 
common  dunners  do  in  making  them  pay. 

The  day  of  people  of  fashion  began  now  to  break, 
and  carts  and  hacks  were  mingled  with  equipages  of 
show  and  vanity;  when  I  resolved  to  walk  it  out  of  cheap- 
ness; but  my  unhappy  curiosity  is  such,  that  I  find  it 
always  my  interest  to  take  coach;  for  some  odd  adventure 
among  beggars,  ballad-singers,  or  the  like,  detains  and 
throws  me  into  expense.  It  happened  so  immediately: 
for  at  the  corner  of  Warwick-street,  as  I  was  listening  to 
a  new  ballad,  a  ragged  rascal,  a  beggar  who  knew  me, 
came  up  to  me,  and  began  to  turn  the  eyes  of  the  good 
company  upon  me,  by  telling  me  he  was  extremely  poor, 
and  should  die  in  the  street  for  want  of  drink,  except  I 
immediately  would  have  the  charity  to  give  him  sixpence 
to  go  into  the  next  ale-house  and  save  his  life.  He  urged, 


RICHARD  STEELE  7 

with  a  melancholy  face,  that  all  his  family  had  died  of 
thirst.  All  the  mob  have  humor,  and  two  or  three  began 
to  take  the  jest;  by  which  Mr.  Sturdy  carried  his  point, 
and  let  me  sneak  off  to  a  coach.  As  I  drove  along,  it 
was  a  pleasing  reflection  to  see  the  world  so  prettily 
checkered  since  I  left  Richmond,  and  the  scene  still  filling 
with  children  of  a  new  hour. 

This  satisfaction  increased  as  I  moved  toward  the  city; 
and  gay  signs,  well-disposed  streets,  magnificent  public 
structures,  and  wealthy  shops  adorned  with  contented 
faces,  made  the  joy  still  rising  till  we  came  into  the  centre 
of  the  city,  and  centre  of  the  world  of  trade,  the  Ex- 
change of  London.  As  other  men  in  the  crowds  about 
me  were  pleased  with  their  hopes  and  bargains,  I  found 
my  account  in  observing  them,  in  attention  to  their  sev- 
eral interests.  I,  indeed,  looked  upon  myself  as  the 
richest  man  that  walked  the  Exchange  that  day;  for 
my  benevolence  made  me  share  the  gains  of  every  bar- 
gain that  was  made.  It  was  not  the  least  of  my  satis- 
faction in  my  survey,  to  go  upstairs,  and  pass  the  shops 
of  agreeable  females;  to  observe  so  many  pretty  hands 
busy  in  the  folding  of  ribbons,  and  the  utmost  eagerness 
of  agreeable  faces  in  the  sale  of  patches,  pins,  and  wires, 
on  each  side  of  the  counters,  was  an  amusement  in  which 
I  could  longer  have  indulged  myself,  had  not  the  dear 
creatures  called  to  me,  to  ask  what  I  wanted,  when  I 
could  not  answer,  only  "To  look  at  you."  I  went  to  one 
of  the  windows  which  opened  to  the  area  below,  where 
all  the  several  voices  lost  their  distinction,  and  rose  up 
in  a  confused  humming;  which  created  in  me  a  reflec- 
tion that  could  not  come  into  the  mind  of  any  but  of  one 
a  little  too  studious;  for  I  said  to  myself  with  a  kind  of 
pun  in  thought,  "What  nonsense  is  all  the  hurry  of  this 
world  to  those  who  are  above  it?"  In  these,  or  not 
much  wiser  thoughts,  I  had  like  to  have  lost  my  place  at 


8  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

the  chop-house,  where  every  man,  according  to  the  nat- 
ural bashfulness  or  sullenness  of  our  nation,  eats  in  a 
public  room  a  mess  of  broth,  or  chop  of  meat,  in  dumb 
silence,  as  if  they  had  no  pretense  to  speak  to  each  other 
on  the  foot  of  being  men,  except  they  were  of  each  other's 
acquaintance. 

I  went  afterward  to  Robin's,  and  saw  people,  who  had 
dined  with  me  at  the  five-penny  ordinary  just  before, 
give  bills  for  the  value  of  large  estates;  and  could  not  but 
behold  with  great  pleasure,  property  lodged  in,  and  trans- 
ferred in  a  moment  from,  such  as  would  never  be  masters 
of  half  as  much  as  is  seemingly  in  them,  and  given  from 
them,  every  day  they  live.  But  before  five  in  the  after- 
noon I  left  the  city,  came  to  my  common  scene  of  Covent- 
garden,  and  passed  the  evening  at  Will's*  in  attending 
the  discourses  of  several  sets  of  people,  who  relieved  each 
other  within  my  hearing  on  the  subjects  of  cards,  dice, 
love,  learning,  and  politics.  The  last  subject  kept  me 
till  I  heard  the  streets  in  the  possession  of  the  bellman, 
who  had  now  the  world  to  himself,  and  cried,  "Past  two 
o'clock."  This  roused  me  from  my  seat;  and  I  went  to 
my  lodgings,  led  by  a  light,  whom  I  put  into  the  dis- 
course of  his  private  economy,  and  made  him  give  me  an 
account  of  the  charge,  hazard,  profit,  and  loss  of  a  family 
that  depended  upon  a  link,  with  a  design  to  end  my  trivial 
day  with  the  generosity  of  sixpence,  instead  of  a  third 
part  of  that  sum.  When  I  came  to  my  chambers,  I  writ 
down  these  minutes;  but  was  at  a  loss  what  instruction 
I  should  propose  to  my  reader  from  the  enumeration  of 
so  many  insignificant  matters  and  occurrences;  and  I 
thought  it  of  great  use,  if  they  could  learn  with  me  to 
keep  their  minds  open  to  gratification,  and  ready  to  re- 
ceive it  from  any  thing  it  meets  with.  This  one  circum- 

*  Will's,  a  famous  coffee-house  in  Russell  Street,  London,  fre- 
quented by  literary  men. 


RICHARD  STEELE  9 

stance  will  make  every  face  you  see  give  you  the  satis- 
faction you  now  take  in  beholding  that  of  a  friend;  will 
make  every  object  a  pleasing  one;  will  make  all  the  good 
which  arrives  to  any  man,  an  increase  of  happiness  to 
yourself. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG 


Charles  Lamb  (1775-1834)  has  been  called  the  best 
loved  of  English  writers.  He  was  the  son  of  a  poor 
London  clerk,  and  attended  as  a  charity  scholar  the  fa- 
mous boys'  school  Christ's  Hospital.  Here  he  learned 
the  Latin  which  he  is  fond  of  introducing  in  his  essays; 
here  he  met  Coleridge,  and  they  became  lifelong  friends. 
When  school-days  ended,  Coleridge  went  to  the  uni- 
versity, and  Lamb  became  a  bookkeeper  in  a  London 
office.  His  work  in  this  place  is  described  in  two  essays, 
The  South  Sea  House,  and  The  Superannuated  Man.  He 
lived  with  his  sister  Mary,  who  appears  in  the  essays  as 
Bridget  Elia.  With  her  he  wrote  the  Tales  from  Shake- 
speare, which  have  introduced  the  plays  to  many  young 
readers.  His  chief  work  is  the  Essays  of  Elia.  These 
were  contributed  to  the  London  Magazine,  over  the  sig- 
nature of  James  Elia,  a  fellow-clerk  in  the  office.  Lamb's 
style  is  unique.  He  was  a  great  reader  of  Elizabethan 
literature,  especially  plays,  and  frequently  uses  quaint 
old  words  from  these  books.  He  is  fond  of  giving  an  un- 
expected turn  to  his  sentences,  and  humor,  a  quiet,  sly 
humor,  peeps  out  everywhere. 

In  connection  with  the  essay  on  Roast  Pig,  it  is  interest- 
ing to  read  this  letter  of  Lamb's,  addressed  to  a  farmer 
and  his  wife: 

Twelfth  Day,  '23. 

The  pig  was  above  my  feeble  praise.  It  was  a  dear 
pigmy.  There  was  some  contention  as  to  who  should 
have  the  ears;  but  in  spite  of  his  obstinacy,  (deaf  as  these 
little  creatures  are  to  advice)  I  contrived  to  get  at  one  of 
them.  .  .  . 

He  must  have  been  the  least  of  his  race.  His  little 
foots  would  have  gone  into  the  silver  slipper.  I  take 
him  to  have  been  a  Chinese,  and  a  female. 

He  crackled  delicately. 

I  left  a  blank  at  the  top  of  the  page,  not  being  deter- 
mined which  to  address  it  to:  so  farmer  and  farmer's 
wife  will  please  to  divide  our  thanks.  May  your  gran- 
aries be  full,  and  your  rats  empty,  and  your  chickens 
plump,  and  your  envious  neighbors  lean,  and  your  la- 

rers  busy,  and  you  as  idle  and  as  happy  as  the  day  is 

Yours  truly, 

C.  LAMB. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG 

(From  the  Essays  of  Elia,  First  Series) 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend 
M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for 
the  first  seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw, 
clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  living  animal,  just  as  they 
do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely 
hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chapter 
of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  designates  a  kind 
of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the  Cooks' 
Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say,  that  the  art 
of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to  be  the 
elder  brother)  was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  manner 
following.  The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into 
the  woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect 
mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest 
son  Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being  fond  of  play- 
ing with  fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let 
some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which  kin- 
dling quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every  part  of 
their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Together 
with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  makeshift  of  a 
building,  you  may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more 
importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than 
nine  in  number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been  esteemed 
a  luxury  all  over  the  East,  from  the  remotest  periods  that 
we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  consternation,  as 
you  may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement, 
which  his  father  and  he  could  easily  build  up  again  with 

13 


14  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  labor  of  an  hour  or  two,  at 
any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he  was  think- 
ing what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and  wringing  his 
hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those  untimely 
sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  nostrils,  unlike  any  scent 
which  he  had  before  experienced.  What  could  it  pro- 
ceed from? — not  from  the  burnt  cottage — he  had  smelt 
that  smell  before — indeed,  this  was  by  no  means  the  first 
accident  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through  the 
negligence  of  this  unlucky  young  firebrand.  Much  less 
did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower. 
A  premonitory  moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed 
his  nether  lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next 
stooped  down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of 
life  in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  ap- 
plied them  in  his  booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some  of 
the  crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his 
fingers,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's 
life  indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it)  he 
tasted — crackling!  Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the 
pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his 
fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at  length  broke 
into  his  slow  understanding,  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt 
so,  and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious;  and  surrendering 
himself  up  to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up 
whole  handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it, 
and  was  cramming  it  down  his  throat  in  his  beastly  fash- 
ion, when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking  rafters,  armed 
with  retributory  cudgel,  and  finding  how  affairs  stood, 
began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulders, 
as  thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more 
than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure,  which 
he  experienced  in  his  lower  regions,  had  rendered  him 
quite  callous  to  any  inconveniences  he  might  feel  in  those 
remote  quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could 


CHARLES  LAMB  15 

not  beat  him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end 
of  it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situa- 
tion, something  like  the  following  dialogue  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  de- 
vouring ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  burnt  me  down 
three  houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to 
you !  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what — 
what  have  you  got  there,  I  say?" 

"O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig !  do  come  and  taste  how  nice 
the  burnt  pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his 
son,  and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a 
Bon  that  should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since 
morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and  fairly  rend- 
ing it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force  into 
the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out,  "Eat,  eat,  eat  the 
burnt  pig,  father,  only  taste — O  Lord!" — with  such-like 
barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he 
would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the 
abominable  thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not  put 
his  son  to  death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  when 
the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his 
son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his 
turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour 
mouths  he  would  for  a  pretense,  proved  not  altogether 
displeasing  to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manuscript 
here  is  a  little  tedious),  both  father  and  son  fairly  set  down 
to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all 
that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape, 
for  the  neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for 
a  couple  of  abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  of  im- 
proving upon  the  good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them. 


16  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about.  It  was  observed 
that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  now  more  frequently 
than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward. 
Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night- 
time. As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house 
of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  himself,  which  was 
the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising  his  son,  seemed 
to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered,  and 
father  and  son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin, 
then  an  inconsiderable  assize  town.  Evidence  was  given, 
the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  in  court,  and  verdict 
about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of  the  jury 
begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which  the  culprits 
stood  accused,  might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He 
handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it;  and  burning  their 
fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had  done  before  them, 
and  nature  prompting  to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy, 
against  the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge 
which  judge  had  ever  given, — to  the  surprise  of  the  whole 
court,  townsfolk,  strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present—- 
without  leaving  the  box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation 
whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of 
Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the 
manifest  iniquity  of  the  decision:  and  when  the  court 
was  dismissed,  went  privily  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs 
that  could  be  had  for  love  or  money.  In  a  few  days 
his  lordship's  town-house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire. 
The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  fires  in  every  direction.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew 
enormously  dear  all  over  the  district.  The  insurance- 
oflaces  one  and  aU  shut  up  shop.  People  built  slighter 
and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to 


CHARLES  LAMB  17 

the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued, 
till  in  process  of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose, 
like  our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery  that  the  flesh  of 
swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked 
(burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  consum- 
ing a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the  rude 
form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by  the  string  or  spit  came 
in  a  century  or  two  later,  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty. 
By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do  the 
most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious,  arts  make 
their  way  among  mankind. 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account 
above  given,  it  must  be  agreed  that  if  a  worthy  pretext 
for  so  dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting  houses  on  fire 
(especially  in  these  days)  could  be  assigned  in  favor  of 
any  culinary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse  might  be 
found  in  ROAST  PIG. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edibilis*  I 
will  maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate — princeps  06- 
soniorumj 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers — things  between 
pig  and  pork — these  hobbledehoys — but  a  young  and  ten- 
der suckling — under  a  moon  old — guiltless  as  yet  of  the 
sty — with  no  original  speck  of  the  amor  immunditiw,].  the 
hereditary  failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest — his 
voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  something  between  a  childish 
treble  and  a  grumble — the  mild  forerunner  or  prceludium§ 
of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  an- 
cestors ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled — but  what  a  sacrifice 
of  the  exterior  tegument ! 

*  Mundus  edibilis,  world  of  eatables, 
t  Princeps  obsoniorum,  the  chief  of  viands. 
|  Amor  immunditice,  the  love  of  dirt. 
$  Prceludium,  prelude. 


18  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

There  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to  that 
of  the  crisp,  tawny,  well-watched,  not  over-roasted, 
crackling,  as  it  is  well  called — the  very  teeth  are  invited 
to  their  share  of  the  pleasure  at  this  banquet,  in  over- 
coming the  coy,  brittle  resistance — with  the  adhesive 
oleaginous — O  call  it  not  fat!  but  an  indefinable  sweet- 
ness growing  up  to  it — the  tender  blossoming  of  fat — 
fat  cropped  in  the  bud — taken  in  the  shoot — in  the  first 
innocence — the  cream  and  quintessence  of  the  child- 
pig's  yet  pure  food — the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  ani- 
mal manna — or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so) 
so  blended  and  running  into  each  other,  that  both  to- 
gether make  but  one  ambrosian  result  or  common  sub- 
stance. 

Behold  him  while  he  is  "doing" — it  seemeth  rather  a 
refreshing  warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so 
passive  to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the  string! 
Now  he  is  just  done.  To  see  the  extreme  sensibility  of 
that  tender  age!  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes — ra- 
diant jellies — shooting  stars. — 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek  he 
lieth ! — wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent  grow  up  to 
the  grossness  and  indocility  which  too  often  accompany 
maturer  swinehood  ?  Ten  to  one  he  would  have  proved  a 
glutton,  a  sloven,  an  obstinate,  disagreeable  animal — 
wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy  conversation — from  these 
sins  he  is  happily  snatched  away — 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  timely  care, — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown  curseth,  while  his 
stomach  half  rejecteth,  the  rank  bacon — no  coal-heaver 
bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages — he  hath  a  fair  sepulchre 
in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  judicious  epicure — and 
for  such  a  tomb  might  be  content  to  die. 


CHARLES  LAMB  19 

He  is  the  best  of  sapors.*  Pine-apple  is  great.  She 
is  indeed  almost  too  transcendent — a  delight,  if  not  sin- 
ful, yet  so  like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender-conscienced 
person  would  do  well  to  pause, — too  ravishing  for  mortal 
taste,  she  woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  that  ap- 
proach her — like  lovers'  kisses,  she  biteth — she  is  a  plea- 
sure bordering  on  pain  from  the  fierceness  and  insanity 
of  her  relish — but  she  stoppeth  at  the  palate — she  med- 
dleth  not  with  the  appetite — and  the  coarsest  hunger 
might  barter  her  consistently  for  a  mutton-chop. 

Pig — let  me  speak  his  praise — is  no  less  provocative 
of  the  appetite  than  he  is  satisfactory  to  the  criticalness 
of  the  censorious  palate.  The  strong  man  may  batten 
on  him,  and  the  weakling  refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters,  a  bundle  of 
virtues  and  vices,  inexplicably  intertwisted,  and  not  to 
be  unravelled  without  hazard,  he  is — good  throughout. 
No  part  of  him  is  better  or  worse  than  another.  He  help- 
eth,  as  far  as  his  little  means  extend,  all  around.  He  is 
the  least  envious  of  banquets.  He  is  all  neighbors'  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly  impart 
a  share  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their 
lot  (few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a  friend.  I  protest 
I  take  as  great  an  interest  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his 
relishes,  and  proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine  own.  "Pres- 
ents," I  often  say,  "endear  Absents."  Hares,  pheasants, 
partridges,  snipes,  barn-door  chickens  (those  "tame 
villatic  fowl"),  capons,  plovers,  brawn,  barrels  of  oysters, 
I  dispense  as  freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste 
them,  as  it  were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a 
stop  must  be  put  somewhere.  One  would  not,  like  Lear, 
"give  everything."  I  make  my  stand  upon  pig.  Me- 
thinks  it  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  flavors 
to  extra-domiciliate,  or  send  out  of  the  house  slightingly 
*  Sapor,  flavor,  taste. 


20  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

(under  pretext  of  friendship,  or  I  know  not  what)  a  bless- 
ing so  particularly  adapted,  predestined,  I  may  say,  to 
my  individual  palate. — It  argues  an  insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind  at  school. 
My  good  old  aunt,  who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end 
of  a  holiday  without  stuffing  a  sweetmeat,  or  some  nice 
thing,  into  my  pocket,  had  dismissed  me  one  evening 
with  a  smoking  plum-cake,  fresh  from  the  oven.  In  my 
way  to  school  (it  was  over  London  Bridge)  a  gray-headed 
old  beggar  saluted  me  (I  have  no  doubt  at  this  time  of  day, 
that  he  was  a  counterfeit).  I  had  no  pence  to  console 
him  with,  and  in  the  vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very 
coxcombry  of  charity,  schoolboy  like,  I  made  him  a  pres- 
ent of — the  whole  cake !  I  walked  on  a  little,  buoyed 
up,  as  one  is  on  such  occasions,  with  a  sweet  soothing  of 
self-satisfaction;  but,  before  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  my  better  feelings  returned,  and  I  burst  into 
tears,  thinking  how  ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good 
aunt,  to  go  and  give  her  good  gift  away  to  a  stranger  that 
I  had  never  seen  before,  and  who  might  be  a  bad  man  for 
aught  I  knew;  and  then  I  thought  of  the  pleasure  my  aunt 
would  be  taking  in  thinking  that  I — I  myself,  and  not 
another — would  eat  her  nice  cake — and  what  should  I 
say  to  her  the  next  time  I  saw  her — how  naughty  I  was 
to  part  with  her  pretty  present! — and  the  odor  of  that 
spicy  cake  came  back  upon  my  recollection,  and  the  plea- 
sure and  the  curiosity  I  had  taken  in  seeing  her  make  it, 
and  her  joy  when  she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and  how  disap- 
pointed she  would  feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in 
my  mouth  at  last — and  I  blamed  my  impertinent  spirit 
of  alms-giving,  and  out-of -place  hypocrisy  of  goodness; 
and  above  all  I  wished  never  to  see  the  face  again  of  that 
insidious,  good-for-nothing,  old  gray  impostor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their  method  of  sacrificing 
these  tender  victims.  We  read  of  pigs  whipped  to  death 


CHARLES   LAMB  21 

with  something  of  a  shock,  as  we  hear  of  any  other  obso- 
lete custom.  The  age  of  discipline  is  gone  by,  or  it  would 
be  curious  to  inquire  (in  a  philosophical  light  merely) 
what  effect  this  process  might  have  toward  intenerating 
and  dulcifying  a  substance  naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet 
as  the  flesh  of  young  pigs.  It  looks  like  refining  a  violet. 
Yet  we  should  be  cautious,  while  we  condemn  the  inhu- 
manity, how  we  censure  the  wisdom  of  the  practice.  It 
might  impart  a  gusto.— 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon  by  the  young 
students,  when  I  was  at  St.  Omer's,  and  maintained  with 
much  learning  and  pleasantry  on  both  sides,  "  Whether, 
supposing  that  the  flavor  of  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death 
by  whipping  (per  flagellationem  extremam*)  superadded  a 
pleasure  upon  the  palate  of  a  man  more  intense  than  any 
possible  suffering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal,  is  man 
justified  in  using  that  method  of  putting  the  animal  to 
death?"  I  forgot  the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  Decidedly,  a  few 
bread  crumbs,  done  up  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a 
dash  of  mild  sage.  But  banish,  dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I  be- 
seech you,  the  whole  onion  tribe.  Barbecue  your  whole 
hogs  to  your  palate,  steep  them  in  shalots,  stuff  them  out 
with  plantations  of  the  rank  and  guilty  garlic;  you  cannot 
poison  them,  or  make  them  stronger  than  they  are — but 
consider,  he  is  a  weakling — a  flower. 

*  Per  flagellationem,  through  capital  punishment  by  whipping. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

OLD  CHINA 


Few  passages  in  the  history  of  English  literature  are 
more  touching  than  the  story  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 
She  was  ten  years  his  senior;  the  mother  was  an  invalid, 
so  that  as  a  child  Charles  was  cared  for  by  his  sister. 
There  was  a  trait  of  insanity  in  the  family.  When 
Charles  was  twenty-one,  Mary,  her  mind  affected  by  a 
long  strain,  became  insane,  and  killed  her  mother.  She 
was  placed  in  an  asylum,  and  although  she  regained  her 
reason,  she  was  only  released  upon  the  solemn  pledge  of 
her  brother  that  he  would  watch  over  her.  From  time 
to  time  the  affliction  recurred,  and  the  brother  would  take 
her  to  the  asylum  for  a  season.  At  other  times  she  was 
an  ideal  companion,  interested  in  books  as  Charles  was, 
helping  him  to  write  his  Tales  from  Shakespeare,  making 
a  pleasant  home  for  him,  where  his  friends  Hazlitt, 
Coleridge,  Godwin,  Haydon  the  painter,  and  W°r4s" 
worth  formed  a  famous  group.  Yet  over  all  their  life 
hung  the  shadow.  Charles,  faithful  to  his  sister,  never 
sought  to  marry.  They  had  been  very  poor,  but  as 
Charles's  literary  work  gradually  won  recognition,  their 
circumstances  became  easier,  even  allowing  a  few  luxuries. 
They  were  both  intensely  fond  of  the  theatre,  and  num* 
bered  among  their  friends  some  of  the  best  actors  of  the 
day.  Such  are  the  materials  out  of  which  Lamb  made 
the  essay  on  Old  China.  Mary  appears  there  as  Bridget; 
all  their  pleasures  and  the  sweet  intimacy  of  their  lives 
are  told,  but  the  shadow  is  not  there.  Like  Stevenson, 
Lamb  resolutely  carried  his  own  burden;  it  might  be 
heavy,  but  no  whimper  or  groan  escapes  into  his  pages. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

OLD  CHINA 

(From  the  Essays  of  Elia,  Second  Series) 

I  have  an  almost  feminine  partiality  for  old  china. 
When  I  go  to  see  any  great  house,  I  inquire  for  the  china- 
closet,  and  next  for  the  picture-gallery.  I  cannot  de- 
fend the  order  of  preference,  but  by  saying  that  we  have 
all  some  taste  or  other,  of  too  ancient  a  date  to  admit  of 
our  remembering  distinctly  that  it  was  an  acquired  one. 
I  can  call  to  mind  the  first  play,  and  the  first  exhibition, 
that  I  was  taken  to;  but  I  am  not  conscious  of  a  time  when 
china  jars  and  saucers  were  introduced  into  my  imagina- 
tion. 

I  had  no  repugnance  then — why  should  I  now  have? 
—to  those  little,  lawless,  azure-tinctured  grotesques,  that, 
under  the  notion  of  men  and  women,  float  about,  uncir- 
cumscribed  by  any  element,  in  that  world  before  perspec- 
tive— a  china  tea-cup. 

I  like  to  see  my  old  friends — whom  distance  cannot 
diminish — figuring  up  in  the  air  (so  they  appear  to  our 
optics),  yet  on  terra  firma  still — for  so  we  must  in  courtesy 
interpret  that  speck  of  deeper  blue,  which  the  decorous 
artist,  to  prevent  absurdity,  had  made  to  spring  up  be- 
neath their  sandals. 

I  love  the  men  with  women's  faces,  and  the  women, 
if  possible,  with  still  more  womanish  expressions. 

Here  is  a  young  and  courtly  Mandarin,  handing  tea 
to  a  lady  from  a  salver — two  miles  off.  See  how  distance 
seems  to  set  off  respect!  And  here  the  same  lady,  or 
another — for  likeness  is  identity  on  tea-cups — is  stepping 

25 


26  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

into  a  little  fairy  boat,  moored  on  the  hither  side  of  this 
calm  garden  river,  with  a  dainty  mincing  foot,  which  in 
a  right  angle  of  incidence  (as  angles  go  in  our  world) 
must  infallibly  land  her  in  the  midst  of  a  flowery  mead — 
a  furlong  off  on  the  other  side  of  the  same  strange  stream ! 

Farther  on — if  far  or  near  can  be  predicated  of  their 
world — see  horses,  trees,  pagodas,  dancing  the  hays.* 

Here — a  cow  and  rabbit  couchant,  and  co-extensive — 
so  objects  show,  seen  through  the  lucid  atmosphere  of 
fine  Cathay. 

I  was  pointing  out  to  my  cousin  last  evening,  over 
our  Hyson  (which  we  are  old-fashioned  enough  to  drink 
unmixed  still  of  an  afternoon),  some  of  these  spedosa 
miracida'f  upon  a  set  of  extraordinary  old  blue  china  (a 
recent  purchase)  which  we  were  now  for  the  first  time  us- 
ing; and  could  not  help  remarking,  how  favorable  circum- 
stances had  been  to  us  of  late  years,  that  we  could  afford 
to  please  the  eye  sometimes  with  trifles  of  this  sort — 
when  a  passing  sentiment  seemed  to  overshade  the  brows 
of  my  companion.  I  am  quick  at  detecting  these  summer 
clouds  in  Bridget. 

"I  wish  the  good  old  times  would  come  again/'  she 
said,  "when  we  were  not  quite  so  rich.  I  do  not  mean 
that  I  want  to  be  poor;  but  there  was  a  middle  state"— 
so  she  was  pleased  to  ramble  on, — "in  which  I  am  sure 
we  were  a  great  deal  happier.  A  purchase  is  but  a  pur- 
chase, now  that  you  have  money  enough  and  to  spare. 
Formerly  it  used  to  be  a  triumph.  When  we  coveted  a 
cheap  luxury  (and,  0  !  how  much  ado  I  had  to  get  you  to 
consent  in  those  times !) — we  were  used  to  have  a  debate 
two  or  three  days  before,  and  to  weigh  the  for  and  against, 
and  think  what  we  might  spare  it  out  of,  and  what  saving 
we  could  hit  upon,  that  should  be  an  equivalent.  A 

*  Hays,  an  old  English  dance,  where  the  dancers  stood  in  a  ring, 
t  Spedosa  miracula,  beautiful  marvels. 


CHARLES  LAMB  27 

thing  was  worth  buying  then,  when  we  felt  the  money 
that  we  paid  for  it. 

"Do  you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which  you  made 
to  hang  upon  you,  till  all  your  friends  cried  shame  upon 
you,  it  grew  so  threadbare — and  all  because  of  that  folio 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which  you  dragged  home  late 
at  night  from  Barker's  in  Covent  Garden?  Do  you  re- 
member how  we  eyed  it  for  weeks  before  we  could  make 
up  our  minds  to  the  purchase,  and  had  not  come  to  a 
determination  till  it  was  near  ten  o'clock  of  the  Saturday 
night,  when  you  set  off  from  Islington,  fearing  you  should 
be  too  late — and  when  the  old  bookseller  with  some 
grumbling  opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twinkling  taper 
(for  he  was  setting  bedwards)  lighted  out  the  relic  from 
his  dusty  treasures — and  when  you  lugged  it  home,  wish- 
ing it  were  twice  as  cumbersome — and  when  you  presented 
it  to  me — and  when  we  were  exploring  the  perfectness  of 
it  (collating,  you  called  it) — and  while  I  was  repairing 
some  of  the  loose  leaves  with  paste,  which  your  impa- 
tience would  not  suffer  to  be  left  till  daybreak — was  there 
no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor  man?  or  can  those  neat  black 
clothes  which  you  wear  now,  and  are  so  careful  to  keep 
brushed,  since  we  have  become  rich  and  finical — give 
you  half  the  honest  vanity  with  which  you  flaunted  it 
about  in  that  overworn  suit — your  old  corbeau* — for 
four  or  five  weeks  longer  than  you  should  have  done  to 
pacify  your  conscience  for  the  mighty  sum  of  fifteen — 
or  sixteen  shillings  was  it? — a  great  affair  we  thought  it 
then — which  you  had  lavished  on  the  old  folio.  Now 
you  can  afford  to  buy  any  book  that  pleases  you,  but  I 
do  not  see  that  you  ever  bring  me  home  any  nice  old  pur- 
chases now. 

"When  you  came  home  with  twenty  apologies  for  lay- 
ing out  a  less  number  of  shillings  upon  that  print 
*  Corbeau,  a  crow,  a  raven. 


28  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

after  Lionardo,*  which  we  christened  the  'Lady  Blanch'; 
when  you  looked  at  the  purchase,  and  thought  of  the 
money — and  thought  of  the  money,  and  looked  again  at 
the  picture — was  there  no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor  man? 
Now,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  into  Colnaghi's, 
and  buy  a  wilderness  of  Lionardos.  Yet  do  you? 

"Then,  do  you  remember  our  pleasant  walks  to  Enfield, 
and  Potter's  Bar,  and  Waltham,  when  we  had  a  holiday 
— holidays  and  all  other  fun  are  gone  now  we  are 
rich — and  the  little  hand-basket  in  which  I  used  to  de- 
posit our  day's  fare  of  savory  cold  lamb  and  salad — and 
how  you  would  pry  about  at  noontide  for  some  decent 
house,  where  we  might  go  in  and  produce  our  store — only 
paying  for  the  ale  that  you  must  call  for — and  speculate 
upon  the  looks  of  the  landlady,  and  whether  she  was 
likely  to  allow  us  a  tablecloth — and  wish  for  such  another 
honest  hostess  as  Izaak  Walton  has  described  many  a  one 
on  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Lea,  when  he  went  a-fish- 
ing — and  sometimes  they  would  prove  obliging  enough, 
and  sometimes  they  would  look  grudgingly  upon  us — 
but  we  had  cheerful  looks  still  for  one  another,  and 
would  eat  our  plain  food  savorily,  scarcely  grudging 
Piscatorf  his  Trout  Hall?  Now — when  we  go  out  a 
day's  pleasuring,  which  is  seldom,  moreover,  we  ride  part 
of  the  way,  and  go  into  a  fine  inn,  and  order  the  best  of 
dinners,  never  debating  the  expense — which,  after  all, 
never  has  half  the  relish  of  those  chance  country  snaps, 
when  we  were  at  the  mercy  of  uncertain  usage,  and  a 
precarious  welcome. 

"You  are  too  proud  to  see  a  play  anywhere  now  but 
in  the  pit.  Do  you  remember  where  it  was  we  used  to 
sit,  when  we  saw  the  Battle  of  Hexham,  and  the  Surrender 

*  Lionardo,  Leonardo  da  Vinci;  perhaps  the  picture  referred  to  is 
the  "Mona  Lisa." 

t  Piaoator,  the  name  of  the  fisherman  in  Walton's  Compleat  Angler. 


CHARLES  LAMB  29 

of  Calais,  and  Bannister  and  Mrs.  Bland  in  the  Children 
in  the  Wood — when  we  squeezed  out  our  shillings  apiece 
to  sit  three  or  four  times  in  a  season  in  the  one-shilling 
gallery — where  you  felt  all  the  time  that  you  ought  not 
to  have  brought  me — and  more  strongly  I  felt  obligation 
to  you  for  having  brought  me — and  the  pleasure  was  the 
better  for  a  little  shame — and  when  the  curtain  drew  up, 
what  cared  we  for  our  place  in  the  house,  or  what  mat- 
tered it  where  we  were  sitting,  when  our  thoughts  were 
with  Rosalind  in  Arden,  or  with  Viola  at  the  Court  of 
Illyria?  You  used  to  say  that  the  gallery  was  the  best 
place  of  all  for  enjoying  a  play  socially — that  the  relish 
of  such  exhibitions  must  be  in  proportion  to  the  infre- 
quency  of  going — that  the  company  we  met  there,  not 
being  in  general  readers  of  plays,  were  obliged  to  attend 
the  more,  and  did  attend,  to  what  was  going  on,  on  the 
stage — because  a  word  lost  would  have  been  a  chasm 
which  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  fill  up.  With  such 
reflections  we  consoled  our  pride  then — and  I  appeal  to 
you  whether,  as  a  woman,  I  met  generally  with  less  at- 
tention and  accommodation  than  I  have  done  since  in 
more  expensive  situations  in  the  house?  The  getting  in, 
indeed,  and  the  crowding  up  those  inconvenient  stair- 
cases, was  bad  enough — but  there  was  still  a  law  of  civility 
to  woman  recognized  to  quite  as  great  an  extent  as  we 
ever  found  in  the  other  passages — and  how  a  little  diffi- 
culty overcome  heightened  the  snug  seat  and  the  play, 
afterwards !  Now  we  can  only  pay  our  money  and  walk 
in.  You  cannot  see,  you  say,  in  the  galleries  now.  I 
am  sure  we  saw,  and  heard  too,  well  enough  then — but 
sight,  and  all,  I  think,  is  gone  with  our  poverty. 

"There  was  pleasure  in  eating  strawberries,  before  they 
became  quite  common — in  the  first  dish  of  peas,  while 
they  were  yet  dear — to  have  them  for  a  nice  supper,  a 
treat.  What  treat  can  we  have  now?  If  we  were  to 


30  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

fcreat  ourselves  now — that  is,  to  have  dainties  a  little 
above  our  means,  it  would  be  selfish  and  wicked.  It  is 
the  very  little  more  that  we  allow  ourselves  beyond  what 
the  actual  poor  can  get  at,  that  makes  what  I  call  a  treat- 
when  two  people,  living  together  as  we  have  done,  now 
and  then  indulge  themselves  in  a  cheap  luxury,  which 
both  like;  while  each  apologizes,  and  is  willing  to  take 
both  halves  of  the  blame  to  his  single  share.  I  see  no 
harm  in  people  making  much  of  themselves,  in  that  sense 
of  the  word.  It  may  give  them  a  hint  how  to  make  much 
of  others.  But  now — what  I  mean  by  the  word — we 
never  do  make  much  of  ourselves.  None  but  the  poor 
can  do  it.  I  do  not  mean  the  veriest  poor  of  all,  but 
persons  as  we  were,  just  above  poverty. 

"I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say,  that  it  is  mighty 
pleasant  at  the  end  of  the  year  to  make  all  meet, — and 
much  ado  we  used  to  have  every  Thirty-first  Night  of 
December  to  account  for  our  exceedings — many  a  long 
face  did  you  make  over  your  puzzled  accounts,  and  in 
contriving  to  make  it  out  how  we  had  spent  so  much — or 
that  we  had  not  spent  so  much — or  that  it  was  impossible 
we  should  spend  so  much  next  year — and  still  we  found 
our  slender  capital  decreasing — but  then, — betwixt  ways, 
and  projects,  and  compromises  of  one  sort  or  another, 
and  talk  of  curtailing  this  charge,  and  doing  without 
that  for  the  future — and  the  hope  that  youth  brings,  and 
laughing  spirits  (in  which  you  were  never  poor  till  now), 
we  pocketed  up  our  loss,  and  in  conclusion,  with  '  lusty 
brimmers'  (as  you  used  to  quote  it  out  of  hearty  cheerful 
Mr.  Cotton,  as  you  called  him),  we  used  to  welcome  in  the 
'coming  guest.'  Now  we  have  no  reckoning  at  all  at 
the  end  of  the  old  year — no  flattering  promises  about  the 
new  year  doing  better  for  us." 

Bridget  is  so  sparing  of  her  speech  on  most  occasions, 
that  when  she  gets  into  a  rhetorical  vein,  I  am  careful 


CHARLES  LAMB  31 

how  I  interrupt  it.  I  could  not  help,  however,  smiling 
at  the  phantom  of  wealth  which  her  dear  imagination 
had  conjured  up  out  of  a  clear  income  of  poor—  —hun- 
dred pounds  a  year.  "It  is  true  we  were  happier  when 
we  were  poorer,  but  we  were  also  younger,  my  cousin. 
I  am  afraid  we  must  put  up  with  the  excess,  for  if  we  were 
to  shake  the  superflux  into  the  sea,  we  should  not  much 
mend  ourselves.  That  we  had  much  to  struggle  with, 
as  we  grew  up  together,  we  have  reason  to  be  most  thank- 
ful. It  strengthened  and  knit  our  compact  closer.  We 
could  never  have  been  what  we  have  been  to  each  other, 
if  we  had  always  had  the  sufficiency  which  you  now  com- 
plain of.  The  resisting  power — those  natural  dilations 
of  the  youthful  spirit,  which  circumstances  cannot 
straiten — with  us  are  long  since  passed  away.  Com- 
petence to  age  is  supplementary  youth,  a  sorry  supple- 
ment indeed,  but  I  fear  the  best  that  is  to  be  had.  We 
must  ride  where  we  formerly  walked:  live  better  and  lie 
softer — and  shall  be  wise  to  do  so — than  we  had  means 
to  do  in  those  good  old  days  you  speak  of.  Yet  could 
those  days  return — could  you  and  I  once  more  walk  our 
thirty  miles  a  day — could  Bannister  and  Mrs.  Bland 
again  be  young,  and  you  and  I  be  young  to  see  them — 
could  the  good  old  one-shilling  gallery  days  return — they 
are  dreams,  my  cousin,  now — but  could  you  and  I  at 
this  moment,  instead  of  this  quiet  argument,  by  our 
well-carpeted  fireside,  sitting  on  this  luxurious  sofa — be 
once  more  struggling  up  those  inconvenient  staircases, 
pushed  about  and  squeezed,  and  elbowed  by  the  poorest 
rabble  of  poor  gallery  scramblers — could  I  once  more 
hear  those  anxious  shrieks  of  yours — and  the  delicious 
Thank  God,  we  are  safe,  which  always  followed  when  the 
topmost  stair,  conquered,  let  in  the  first  light  of  the  whote 
cheerful  theatre  down  beneath  us — I  know  not  the  fathom 
line  that  ever  touched  a  descent  so  deep  as  I  would  be 


32  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

willing  to  bury  more  wealth  in  than  Croesus  had,  or 

the  great  Jew  R is  supposed  to  have,  to  purchase  it. 

And  now  do  just  look  at  that  merry  little  Chinese  waiter 
holding  an  umbrella,  big  enough  for  a  bed-tester,  over  the 
head  of  that  pretty  insipid  half  Madonna-ish  chit  of  a 
lady  in  that  very  blue  summer-house." 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS 


William  Hazlitt  (1778-1830)  was  the  son  of  an  English 
clergyman,  and  was  himself  educated  for  the  ministry, 
but  declined  to  enter  it.  An  elder  brother  was  a  por- 
trait-painter; William  tried  for  four  years  to  learn  the 
art,  but  without  success.  He  went  to  London,  where 
he  became  theatrical  critic  for  a  newspaper.  Leigh  Hunt, 
who  was  then  editing  the  Examiner,  asked  him  to  write 
some  essays  for  it.  The  result  was  The  Round  Table,  a 
series  of  papers  on  books,  manners,  and  social  customs, 
written  in  a  style  of  singular  clearness  and  charm.  Ste- 
venson says  in  one  of  his  essays,  "We  are  fine  fellows,  but 
we  cannot  write  like  Hazlitt." 

A  course  of  lectures  on  literature  which  Hazlitt  deliv- 
ered was  later  published  in  three  volumes,  English  Comic 
Writers,  English  Poetry,  and  Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age 
of  Elizabeth.  These  contain  some  admirable  literary  criti- 
cism. But  his  chief  fame  rests  upon  his  volumes  of  es- 
says, which  include  Table  Talk,  The  Round  Table,  The 
Plain  Speaker,  Sketches  and  Essays,  and  Winterslow.  Haz- 
litt was  the  friend  of  interesting  people  like  Coleridge, 
Lamb,  and  Wordsworth;  he  was  himself  an  interesting 
character,  strong  in  his  likes  and  dislikes,  very  apt  to  quar- 
rel with  his  friends.  In  this  essay  he  shows  himself  as  a 
true  hero-worshipper.  It  was  published  in  1823,  twenty- 
five  years  after  the  events  which  it  relates.  Note  the  fre- 
quency with  which  he  quotes  from  his  beloved  poets;  the 
ease  of  the  style,  and  the  vividness  with  which  he  de- 
scribes the  appearance  of  Coleridge,  and  the  impression 
made  by  him. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS 

(From  Winterslow,  a  collection  of  Hazlitt's  essays 
published  after  his  death) 

My  father  was  a  Dissenting  minister,  at  Wem,  in 
Shropshire;  and  in  the  year  1798  (the  figures  that  com- 
pose the  date  are  to  me  like  the  "dreaded  name  of  Demo- 
gorgon"  *)  Mr.  Coleridge  came  to  Shrewsbury,  to  suc- 
ceed Mr.  Rowe  in  the  spiritual  charge  of  a  Unitarian 
congregation  there.  He  did  not  come  till  late  on  the 
Saturday  afternoon  before  he  was  to  preach;  and  Mr. 
Rowe,  who  himself  went  down  to  the  coach,  in  a  state 
of  anxiety  and  expectation,  to  look  for  the  arrival  of 
his  successor,  could  find  no  one  at  all  answering  the  de- 
scription but  a  round-faced  man,  in  a  short  black  coat, 
(like  a  shooting  jacket)  which  hardly  seemed  to  have 
been  made  for  him,  but  who  seemed  to  be  talking  at  a 
great  rate  to  his  fellow  passengers.  Mr.  Rowe  had  scarce 
returned  to  give  an  account  of  his  disappointment  when 
the  round-faced  man  in  black  entered,  and  dissipated  all 
doubts  on  the  subject  by  beginning  to  talk.  He  did  not 
cease  while  he  stayed;  nor  has  he  since,  that  I  know  of. 
He  held  the  good  town  of  Shrewsbury  in  delightful  sus- 
pense for  three  weeks  that  he  remained  there,  "flutter- 
ing the  proud  Salopians ,f  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote"; 
and  the  Welsh  mountains  that  skirt  the  horizon  with 
their  tempestuous  confusion,  agree  to  have  heard  no  such 
mystic  sounds  since  the  days  of 

"High-born  Hoel's  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay."  t 

*  Demogorgon,  one  of  the  fallen  angels  in  Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 
t  Salopians,  inhabitants  of  Salop,  an  old  name  for  Shropshire. 
J  Quoted  from  Gray's  "The  Bard." 

35 


36  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

As  we  passed  along  between  Wem  and  Shrewsbury, 
and  I  eyed  their  blue  tops  seen  through  the  wintry 
branches,  or  the  red  rustling  leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak- 
trees  by  the  roadside,  a  sound  was  in  my  ears  as  of  a 
Siren's  song;  I  was  stunned,  startled  with  it,  as  from  deep 
sleep;  butJ^had^no^-aertio^rEheii- that  I  should  ev§r  be 
able  to  express  my  admiration  to  others  in  motley  imagery 
or  quarat  -allusion,  till  the  light  of  his  genius  shone  into 
my  soul  like  the  sun's  rays  glittering  in  the  puddles  of 
the  road.  I  was  at  that  time  dumb,  inarticulate,  help- 
less, like  a  worm  by  the  wayside,  crushed,  bleeding,  life- 
less; but  now,  bursting  the  deadly  bands  that  "bound 
them, 

"With  Styx  nine  times  round  them,"  * 

my  ideas  float  on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand  their 
plumes,  catch  the  golden  light  of  other  years.  My  soul 
has  indeed  remained  in  its  original  bondage,  dark,  ob- 
scure, with  longings  infinite  and  unsatisfied;  my  heart, 
shut  up  in  the  prison-house  of  this  rude  clay,  has  never 
found,  nor  will  it  ever  find,  a  heart  to  speak  to;  but  that 
my  understanding  also  did  nob  remain  dumb  and  brutish, 
or  at  length  found  a  language  to  express  itself,  I  owe  to 
Coleridge.  But  this  is  not  to  my  purpose. 

My  father  lived  ten  miles  from  Shrewsbury,  and  was 
in  the  habit  of  exchanging  visits  with  Mr.  Rowe,  and 
with  Mr.  Jenkins  of  Whitchurch  (nine  miles  farther  on), 
according  to  the  custom  of  Dissenting  ministers  in  each 
other's  neighborhood.  A  line  of  communication  is  thus 
established,  by  which  the  flame  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty  is  kept  alive,  and  nourishes  its  smouldering  fire 
unquenchable,  like  the  fires  in  the  Agamemnon  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  placed  at  different  stations,  that  waited  for  ten  long 
years  to  announce  with  their  blazing  pyramids  the  de- 

*From  Pope's  "Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day." 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  37 

struction  of  Troy.  Coleridge  had  agreed  to  come  over 
and  see  my  father,  according  to  the  courtesy  of  the 
country,  as  Mr.  Howe's  probable  successor;  but  in  the 
meantime,  I  had  gone  to  hear  him  preach  the  Sunday 
after  his  arrival.  A  poet  and  a  philosopher  getting  up 
into  a  Unitarian  pulpit  to  preach  the  gospel,  was  a  ro- 
mance in  these  degenerate  days,  a  sort  of  revival  of  the 
primitive  spirit  of  Christianity,  which  was  not  to  be 
resisted. 

It  was  in  January  of  1798,  that  I  rose  one  morning 
before  daylight,  to  walk  ten  miles  in  the  mud,  to  hear 
this  celebrated  person  preach.  Never,  the  longest  day 

I  have  to  live,  shall  I  have  such  another  walk  as  this 
cold,  raw,  comfortless  one,  in  the  winter  of  the  year  1798. 

II  y  a  des  impressions  que  ni  le  temps  ni  ks  circonstances 
peuvent  effacer.     Dusse-je  vivre  des  siecles  entiers,  le  doux 
temps  de  ma  jeunesse  ne  pent  renaitre  pour  moi,  ni  s' effacer 
jamais  dans  ma  memoir  e*    When  I  got  there,  the  organ 
was  playing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  and  when  it  was  done, 
Mr.  Coleridge  rose  and  gave  out  his  text,  "And  he  went 
up  into  the  mountain  to  pray,  himself,  alone."     As  he 
gave  out  this  text,  his  voice  "rose  like  a  steam  of  rich 
distilled  perfumes,"  f  and  when  he  came  to  the  two  last 
words,  which  he  pronounced  loud,  deep,  and  distinct,  it 
seemed  to  me,  who  was  then  young,  as  if  the  sounds  had 
echoed  from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart,  and  as  if 
that  prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence  through 
the  universe.     The  idea  of  St.  John  came  into  my  mind, 
"of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his  loins  girt 
about,  and  whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild  honey." 

*  II  y  a,  etc.  "There  are  impressions  which  neither  time  nor  cir- 
cumstances can  efface.  If  I  should  live  whole  ages,  the  sweet  days 
of  my  youth  could  never  return  to  me,  nor  ever  be  effaced  from  my 
memory." — Rousseau's  Confessions. 

t  Quoted  from  Milton's  "Comus." 


38  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

The  preacher  then  launched  into  his  subject,  like  an 
eagle  dallying  with  the  wind.  The  sermon  was  upon 
peace  and  war;  upon  church  and  state — not  their  alli- 
ance but  their  separation — on  the  spirit  of  the  world  and 
the  spirit  of  Christianity,  not  as  the  same,  but  as  opposed 
to  one  another.  He  talked  of  those  who  had  "  inscribed 
the  cross  of  Christ  on  banners  dripping  with  human 
gore."  He  made  a  poetical  and  pastoral  excursion — 
and  to  show  the  fatal  effects  of  war,  drew  a  striking  con- 
trast between  the  simple  shepherd-boy,  driving  his  team 
afield,  or  sitting  under  the  hawthorn,  piping  to  his  flock, 
"as  though  he  should  never  be  old,"  and  the  same  poor 
country  lad,  crimped,*  kidnapped,  brought  into  town, 
made  drunk  at  an  ale-house,  turned  into  a  wretched 
drummer  boy,  with  his  hair  sticking  on  end  with 
powder  and  pomatum,  a  long  cue  at  his  back,  and 
tricked  out  in  the  loathsome  finery  of  the  profession 
of  blood: 

"Such  were  the  notes  our  once-loved  poet  sung."f 

And  for  myself,  I  could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if 
I  had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Poetry  and  Philos- 
ophy had  met  together.  Truth  and  Genius  had  em- 
braced, under  the  eye  and  with  the  sanction  of  Religion. 
This  was  even  beyond  my  hopes.  I  returned  home  well 
satisfied.  The  sun  that  was  still  laboring  pale  and  wan 
through  the  sky,  obscured  by  thick  mists,  seemed  an 
emblem  of  the  good  cause;  and  the  cold  dank  drops  of 
dew,  that  hung  half  melted  on  the  beard  of  the  thistle, 
had  something  genial  and  refreshing  in  them;  for  there 
was  a  spirit  of  hope  and  youth  in  all  nature,  that  turned 

*  Crimped,  entrapped  in  order  to  be  forced  into  military  or  naval 
service. 

t  From  Pope's  "Epistle  to  Oxford." 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  39 

everything  into  good.  The  face  of  nature  had  not  then 
the  brand  of  Jus  Divinum*  on  it: 

"Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe."f 

On  the  Tuesday  following,  the  half-inspired  speaker 
came.  I  was  called  down  into  the  room  where  he  was, 
and  went  half  hoping,  half  afraid.  He  received  me  very 
graciously,  and  I  listened  for  a  long  time  without  utter- 
ing a  word.  I  did  not  suffer  in  his  opinion  by  my  silence. 
"For  those  two  hours,"  he  afterward  was  pleased  to  say, 
"he  was  conversing  with  William  Hazlitt's  forehead"! 
His  appearance  was  different  from  what  I  had  antici- 
pated from  seeing  him  before.  At  a  distance,  and  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  chapel,  there  was  to  me  a  strange  wild- 
ness  in  his  aspect,  a  dusky  obscurity,  and  I  thought  him 
pitted  with  the  smallpox.  His  complexion  was  at  that 
time  clear,  and  even  bright — 

"As  are  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen."  J 

His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  light  as  if  built  of 
ivory,  with  large  projecting  eyebrows,  and  his  eyes  roll- 
ing beneath  them,  like  a  sea  with  darkened  lustre.  "A 
certain  tender  bloom  his  face  o'erspread,"  a  purple  tinge 
as  we  see  it  in  the  pale  thoughtful  complexions  of  the 
Spanish  portrait-painters,  Murillo  and  Velasquez.  His 
mouth  was  gross,  voluptuous,  open,  eloquent;  his  chin 
good-humored  and  round;  but  his  nose,  the  rudder  of 
the  face,  the  index  of  the  will,  was  small,  feeble,  nothing, 
— like  what  he  has  done.  It  might  seem  that  the  genius 
of  his  face  as  from  a  height  surveyed  and  projected  him 
(with  sufficient  capacity  and  huge  aspiration)  into  the 

*  Jus  Divinum,  the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  kings,  i.  e.,  that 
kings  enjoyed  their  power  by  the  sanction  of  God. 
t  From  Milton's  "Lycidas." 
j  From  Thomson's  "Castle  of  Indolence." 


40  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

world  unknown  of  thought  and  imagination,  with  noth- 
ing to  support  or  guide  his  veering  purpose,  as  if  Colum- 
bus had  launched  his  adventurous  course  for  the  New 
World  in  a  scallop,  without  oars  or  compass.  So,  at 
least,  I  comment  on  it  after  the  event.  Coleridge,  in  his 
person,  was  rather  above  the  common  size,  inclining  to 
the  corpulent,  or  like  Lord  Hamlet,  "somewhat  fat  and 
pursy."  His  hair  (now,  alas !  gray)  was  then  black  and 
glossy  as  the  raven's,  and  fell  in  smooth  masses  over  his 
forehead.  This  long  pendulous  hair  is  peculiar  to  enthu- 
siasts, to  those  whose  minds  tend  heavenward;  and  is  tra- 
ditionally inseparable  (though  of  a  different  color)  from 
the  pictures  of  Christ.  It  ought  to  belong,  as  a  charac- 
ter, to  all  who  preach  Christ  crucified,  and  Coleridge  was 
.at  that  time  one  of  those ! 

It  was  curious  to  observe  the  contrast  between  him  and 
my  father,  who  was  a  veteran  in  the  cause,  and  then  de- 
clining into  the  vale  of  years.  He  had  been  a  poor  Irish 
lad,  carefully  brought  up  by  his  parents,  and  sent  to  the 
University  of  Glasgow  (where  he  studied  under  Adam 
Smith*)  to  prepare  him  for  his  future  destination.  It 
was  his  mother's  proudest  wish  to  see  her  son  a  Dissent- 
ing minister.  So,  if  we  look  back  to  past  generations  (as 
far  as  eye  can  reach),  we  see  the  same  hopes,  fears,  wishes, 
followed  by  the  same  disappointments,  throbbing  in  thft 
human  heart;  and  so  we  may  see  them  (if  we  look  for- 
ward) rising  up  forever,  and  disappearing,  like  vaporish 
bubbles,  in  the  human  breast !  After  being  tossed  about 
from  congregation  to  congregation  in  the  heats  of  the 
Unitarian  controversy,  and  squabbles  about  the  Ameri- 
can war,  he  had  been  relegated  to  an  obscure  village, 
where  he  was  to  spend  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life, 
far  from  the  only  converse  that  he  loved,  the  talk  about 

*  Adam  Smith,  author  of  the  Wealth  of  Nations,  one  of  the  most 
notable  books  on  political  economy. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  41 

disputed  texts  of  Scripture,  and  the  cause  of  civil  and 
religious  liberty.  Here  he  passed  his  days,  repining, 
but  resigned,  in  the  study  of  the  Bible,  and  the  perusal 
of  the  commentators — huge  folios,  not  easily  got  through, 
one  of  which  would  outlast  a  winter !  Why  did  he  pore 
on  these  from  morn  to  night  (with  the  exception  of  a 
walk  in  the  fields  or  a  turn  in  the  garden  to  gather 
broccoli-plants  or  kidney-beans  of  his  own  rearing,  with 
no  small  degree  of  pride  and  pleasure)?  Here  were  "no 
figures  nor  no  fantasies" — neither  poetry  nor  philosophy 
— nothing  to  dazzle,  nothing  to  excite  modern  curiosity; 
but  to  his  lack-lustre  eyes  there  appeared  within  the 
pages  of  the  ponderous,  unwieldy,  neglected  tomes,  the 
sacred  name  of  JEHOVAH  in  Hebrew  capitals:  pressed 
down  by  the  weight  of  the  style,  worn  to  the  last  fading 
thinness  of  the  understanding,  there  were  glimpses, 
glimmering  notions  of  the  patriarchal  wanderings,  with 
palm-trees  hovering  in  the  horizon,  and  processions  of 
camels  at  the  distance  of  three  thousand  years;  there 
was  Moses  with  the  Burning  Bush,  the  number  of  the 
Twelve  Tribes,  types,  shadows,  glosses  on  the  law  and 
the  prophets;  there  were  discussions  (dull  enough)  on 
the  age  of  Methuselah,  a  mighty  speculation !  there  were 
outlines,  rude  guesses  at  the  shape  of  Noah's  Ark  and  of 
the  riches  of  Solomon's  Temple;  questions  as  to  the  date 
of  the  creation,  predictions  of  the  end  of  all  things;  the 
great  lapses  of  time,  the  strange  mutations  of  the  globe 
were  unfolded  with  the  voluminous  leaf,  as  it  turned  over; 
and  though  the  soul  might  slumber  with  an  hieroglyphic 
veil  of  inscrutable  mysteries  drawn  over  it,  yet  it  was 
in  a  slumber  ill  exchanged  for  all  the  sharpened  realities 
of  sense,  wit,  fancy,  or  reason.  My  father's  life  was 
comparatively  a  dream;  but  it  was  a  dream  of  infinity 
and  eternity,  of  death,  the  resurrection,  and  a  judgment 
to  come ! 


42  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

No  two  individuals  were  ever  more  unlike  than  were 
the  host  and  his  guest.  A  poet  was  to  my  father  a  sort 
of  nondescript;  yet  whatever  added  grace  to  the  Unitarian 
cause  was  to  him  welcome.  He  could  hardly  have  been 
more  surprised  or  pleased,  if  our  visitor  had  worn  wings. 
Indeed,  his  thoughts  had  wings:  and  as  the  silken  sounds 
rustled  round  our  little  wainscoted  parlor,  my  father 
threw  back  his  spectacles  over  his  forehead,  his  white 
hairs  mixing  with  its  sanguine  hue;  and  a  smile  of  delight 
beamed  across  his  rugged,  cordial  face,  to  think  that 
Truth  had  found  a  new  ally  in  Fancy !  *  Besides,  Cole- 
ridge seemed  to  take  considerable  notice  of  me,  and 
that  of  itself  was  enough. 

He  talked  very  familiarly,  but  agreeably,  and  glanced 
over  a  variety  of  subjects.  At  dinner  time  he  grew  more 
animated,  and  dilated  in  a  very  edifying  manner  on  Mary 
Wollstonecraftt  and  Mackintosh.  The  last,  he  said,  he 
considered  (on  my  father's  speaking  of  his  Vindicice  Gal- 
licce  as  a  capital  performance)  as  a  clever,  scholastic  man 
— a  master  of  the  topics — or,  as  the  ready  warehouseman 
of  letters,  who  knew  exactly  where  to  lay  his  hand  on 
what  he  wanted,  though  the  goods  were  not  his  own.  He 
thought  him  no  match  for  Burke,  either  in  style  or  matter. 
Burke  was  a  metaphysician,  Mackintosh  a  mere  logician. 
Burke  was  an  orator  (almost  a  poet)  who  reasoned  in 
figures,  because  he  had  an  eye  for  nature:  Mackintosh, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  a  rhetorician,  who  had  only  an 

*  My  father  was  one  of  those  who  mistook  his  talent,  after  all. 
He  used  to  be  very  much  dissatisfied  that  I  preferred  his  Letters  to 
his  Sermons.  The  last  were  forced  and  dry;  the  first  came  naturally 
from  him.  For  ease,  half -plays  on  words,  and  a  supine,  monkish, 
indolent  pleasantry,  I  have  never  seen  them  equalled.  (Hazlitt's 
note.) 

t  Mary  Wollstonecraft  was  the  author  of  the  Vindication  of  the 
Rights  of  Women,  published  in  1792.  James  Mackintosh's  Vinditias 
Gallicce  was  a  defense  of  the  French  Revolution.  Both  books  were 
regarded  as  very  radical  in  their  day. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  43 

eye  to  commonplaces.  On  this  I  ventured  to  say  that 
I  had  always  entertained  a  great  opinion  of  Burke,  and 
that  (as  far  as  I  could  find)  the  speaking  of  him  with  con- 
tempt might  be  made  the  test  of  a  vulgar,  democratical 
mind.  This  was  the  first  observation  I  ever  made  to  Cole- 
ridge, and  he  said  it  was  a  very  just  and  striking  one.  I 
remember  the  leg  of  Welsh  mutton  and  the  turnips  on 
the  table  that  day  had  the  finest  flavor  imaginable.  Cole- 
ridge added  that  Mackintosh  and  Tom  Wedgewood*  (of 
whom,  however,  he  spoke  highly)  had  expressed  a  very 
indifferent  opinion  of  his  friend  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on 
which  he  remarked  to  them — "He  strides  on  so  far  before 
you,  that  he  dwindles  in  the  distance!"  Godwin  had 
once  boasted  to  him  of  having  carried  on  an  argument 
with  Mackintosh  for  three  hours  with  dubious  success; 
Coleridge  told  him — "If  there  had  been  a  man  of  genius 
in  the  room  he  would  have  settled  the  question  in  five 
minutes."  He  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft,  and  I  said,  I  had  once  for  a  few  moments, 
and  that  she  seemed  to  me  to  turn  off  Godwin's  objec- 
tions to  something  she  advanced  with  quite  a  playful, 
easy  air.  He  replied,  that  "this  was  only  one  instance 
of  the  ascendancy  which  people  of  imagination  exercised 
over  those  of  mere  intellect."  He  did  not  rate  Godwin 
very  highf  (this  was  caprice  or  prejudice,  real  or  affected), 
but  he  had  a  great  idea  of  Mrs.  Wollstonecraft's  powers 
of  conversation;  none  at  all  of  her  talent  for  book-making. 
We  talked  a  little  about  Holcroft.  He  had  been  asked  if 

*  Thomas  Wedgewood  was  a  famous  maker  of  pottery.  The  works 
he  established  at  Burslem  grew  into  the  Five  Towns  described  in 
Arnold  Bennett's  novels. 

t  He  complained  in  particular  of  the  presumption  of  his  attempt- 
ing to  establish  the  future  immortality  of  man,  "without"  (as  he 
said)  "knowing  what  Death  was  or  what  Life  was"— and  the  tone 
in  which  he  pronounced  these  two  words  seemed  to  convey  a  com- 
plete image  of  both.  (Hazlitt's  note.) 


44  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

he  was  not  much  struck  with  him,  and  he  said,  he  thought 
himself  in  more  danger  of  being  struck  by  him.  I  com- 
plained that  he  would  not  let  me  get  on  at  all,  for  he  re- 
quired a  definition  of  every  the  commonest  word,  ex- 
claiming, "  What  do  you  mean  by  a  sensation,  Sir  ?  What 
do  you  mean  by  an  idea?"  This,  Coleridge  said,  was 
barricading  the  road  to  truth;  it  was  setting  up  a  turn- 
pike-gate at  every  step  we  took.  I  forget  a  great  num- 
ber of  things,  many  more  than  I  remember;  but  the  day' 
passed  off  pleasantly,  and  the  next  morning  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge was  to  return  to  Shrewsbury. 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  I  found  that  he  had 
just  received  a  letter  from  his  friend,  T.  Wedge  wood, 
making  him  an  offer  of  150  I.  a  year  if  he  chose  to  waive 
his  present  pursuit,  and  devote  himself  entirely  to  the 
study  of  poetry  and  philosophy.  Coleridge  seemed  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  close  with  this  proposal  in  the 
act  of  tying  on  one  of  his  shoes.  It  threw  an  additional 
damp  on  his  departure.  It  took  the  wayward  enthusiast 
quite  from  us  to  cast  him  into  Deva's  winding  vales,  or  by 
the  shores  of  old  romance.  Instead  of  living  at  ten  miles' 
distance,  of  being  the  pastor  of  a  Dissenting  congrega- 
tion at  Shrewsbury,  he  was  henceforth  to  inhabit  the  Hill 
of  Parnassus,  to  be  a  Shepherd  on  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains.* Alas !  I  knew  not  the  way  thither,  and  felt  very 
little  gratitude  for  Mr.  Wedgewood's  bounty.  I  was 
presently  relieved  from  this  dilemma,  for  Mr.  Coleridge, 
asking  for  a  pen  and  ink,  and  going  to  a  table  to  write 
something  on  a  bit  of  card,  advanced  toward  me  with, 
undulating  step,  and  giving  me  the  precious  document, 
said  that  that  was  his  address,  Mr.  Coleridge,  Nether 
Stowey,  Somersetshire;  and  that  he  should  be  glad  to  see 
me  there  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  and,  if  I  chose,  would 

*  Delectable  Mountains,  described  in  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress 
as  a  place  from  which  one  may  see  the  Celestial  City. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  45 

come  half-way  to  meet  me.  I  was  not  less  surprised  than 
the  shepherd-boy  (this  simile  is  to  be  found  in  Cassandra), 
when  he  sees  a  thunderbolt  fall  close  at  his  feet.  I 
stammered  out  my  acknowledgments  and  acceptance 
of  this  offer  (I  thought  Mr.  Wedge  wood's  annuity  a  trifle 
to  it)  as  well  as  I  could;  and  this  mighty  business  being 
settled,  the  poet-preacher  took  leave,  and  I  accompanied 
him  six  miles  on  the  road. 

It  was  a  fine  morning  in  the  middle  of  winter,  and  he 
talked  the  whole  way.  The  scholar  in  Chaucer  is  de- 
scribed as  going 

"sounding  on  his  way." 

So  Coleridge  went  on  his.  In  digressing,  in  dilating,  in 
passing  from  subject  to  subject,  he  appeared  to  me  to 
float  in  air,  to  slide  on  ice.  He  told  me  in  confidence 
(going  along)  that  he  should  have  preached  two  sermons 
before  he  accepted  the  situation  at  Shrewsbury,  one  on 
Infant  Baptism,  the  other  on  the  Lord's  Supper,  show- 
ing that  he  could  not  administer  either,  which  would  have 
effectually  disqualified  him  for  the  object  in  view.  I 
observed  that  he  continually  crossed  me  on  the  way  by 
shifting  from  one  side  of  the  footpath  to  the  other.  This 
struck  me  as  an  odd  movement;  but  I  did  not  at  that 
tune  connect  it  with  any  instability  of  purpose  or  invol- 
untary change  of  principle,  as  I  have  done  since.  He 
seemed  unable  to  keep  on  in  a  straight  line.  He  spoke 
slightingly  of  Hume  (whose  Essay  on  Miracles  he  said 
was  stolen  from  an  objection  started  in  one  of  South's 
sermons — Credat  Judceus  Appella!*)  I  was  not  very 
much  pleased  at  this  account  of  Hume,  for  I  had  just 
been  reading,  with  infinite  relish,  that  completest  of  all 
metaphysical  chokepears,  his  Treatise  on  Human  Nature, 

*  Credat,  etc.  "Lot  the  Jew  Appella  believe  it,  I  will  not!" 
Quoted  from  Horace. 


46  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

to  which  the  Essays  in  point  of  scholastic  subtlety  and 
close  reasoning,  are  mere  elegant  trifling,  light  summer 
reading.  Coleridge  even  denied  the  excellence  of  Hume's 
general  style,  which  I  think  betrayed  a  want  of  taste  or 
candor.  He  however  made  me  amends  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  spoke  of  Berkeley.  He  dwelt  particularly  on 
his  Essay  on  Vision  as  a  masterpiece  of  analytical  reason- 
ing. So  it  undoubtedly  is.  He  was  exceedingly  angry 
with  Dr.  Johnson  for  striking  the  stone  with  his  foot,  in 
allusion  to  this  author's  theory  of  matter  and  spirit,  and 
saying,  "Thus  I  confute  him,  Sir."  Coleridge  drew  a 
parallel  (I  don't  know  how  he  brought  about  the  connec- 
tion) between  Bishop  Berkeley  and  Tom  Paine.  He  said 
the  one  was  an  instance  of  a  subtle,  the  other  of  an  acute 
mind,  than  which  no  two  things  could  be  more  distinct. 
The  one  was  a  shop-boy's  quality,  the  other  the  charac- 
teristic of  a  philosopher.  He  considered  Bishop  Butler 
as  a  true  philosopher,  a  profound  and  conscientious 
thinker,  a  genuine  reader  of  nature  and  his  own  mind. 
He  did  not  speak  of  his  Analogy,  but  of  his  Sermons  at 
the  Rolls'  Chapel,  of  which  I  had  never  heard.  Coleridge 
somehow  always  contrived  to  prefer  the  unknown  to  the 
known.  In  this  instance  he  was  right.  The  Analogy  is 
a  tissue  of  sophistry,  of  wire-drawn,  theological  special- 
pleading;  the  Sermons  (with  the  preface  to  them)  are  in  a 
fine  vein  of  deep,  matured  reflection,  a  candid  appeal  to 
our  observation  of  human  nature,  without  pedantry  and 
without  bias.  I  told  Coleridge  I  had  written  a  few  re- 
marks, and  was  sometimes  foolish  enough  to  believe  that 
I  had  made  a  discovery  on  the  same  subject  (the  Natural 
Disinterestedness  of  the  Human  Mind)— and  I  tried  to 
explain  my  view  of  it  to  Coleridge,  who  listened  with 
great  willingness,  but  I  did  not  succeed  in  making  myself 
understood. 

I  sat  down  to  the  task  shortly  afterward  for  the  twenti-- 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  47 

eth  time,  got  new  pens  and  paper,  determined  to  make 
clear  work  of  it,  wrote  a  few  meagre  sentences  in  the  skele- 
ton style  of  a  mathematical  demonstration,  stopped  half- 
way down  the  second  page;  and,  after  trying  in  vain  to 
pump  up  any  words,  images,  notions,  apprehensions, 
facts,  or  observations,  from  that  gulf  of  abstraction  in 
which  I  had  plunged  myself  for  four  or  five  years  pre- 
ceding, gave  up  the  attempt  as  labor  in  vain,  and  shed 
tears  of  helpless  despondency  on  the  blank,  unfinished 
paper.  I  can  write  fast  enough  now.  Am  I  better  than 
I  was  then?  Oh  no!  One  truth  discovered,  one  pang 
of  regret  at  not  being  able  to  express  it,  is  better  than 
all  the  fluency  and  flippancy  in  the  world.  Would  that 
I  could  go  back  to  what  I  then  was!  Why  can  we  not 
revive  past  times  as  we  can  revisit  old  places?  If  I  had 
the  quaint  Muse  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  to  assist  me,  I  would 
write  a  Sonnet  to  the  Road  between  Wem  and  Shrewsbury, 
and  immortalize  every  step  of  it  by  some  fond  enigmat- 
ical conceit.  I  would  swear  that  the  very  milestones  had 
ears,  and  that  Harmer-hill  stooped  with  all  its  pines,  to 
listen  to  a  poet,  as  he  passed !  I  remember  but  one  other 
topic  of  discourse  in  this  walk.  He  mentioned  Paley, 
praised  the  naturalness  and  clearness  of  his  style,  but 
condemned  his  sentiments,  thought  him  a  mere  time- 
serving casuist,  and  said  that  "the  fact  of  his  work  on 
Moral  and  Political  Philosophy  being  made  a  text-book 
in  our  universities  was  a  disgrace  to  the  national  char- 
acter." 

We  parted  at  the  six-mile  stone;  and  I  returned  home- 
ward, pensive,  but  much  pleased.  I  had  met  with  unex- 
pected notice  from  a  person  whom  I  believed  to  have  been 
prejudiced  against  me.  "Kind  and  affable  to  me  had 
been  his  condescension,  and  should  be  honored  ever  with 
suitable  regard."  He  was  the  first  poet  I  had  known, 
and  he  certainly  answered  to  that  inspired  name.  I  had 


48  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

heard  a  great  deal  of  his  powers  of  conversation  and  was 
not  disappointed.  In  fact,  I  never  met  with  anything 
at  all  like  them,  either  before  or  since.  I  could  easily 
credit  the  accounts  which  were  circulated  of  his  holding 
forth  to  a  large  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  an  evening 
or  two  before,  on  the  Berkeleian  Theory,  when  he  made 
the  whole  material  universe  look  like  a  transparency  of 
fine  words;  and  another  story  (which  I  believe  he  has 
somewhere  told  himself)  of  his  being  asked  to  a  party  at 
Birmingham,  of  his  smoking  tobacco  and  going  to  sleep 
after  dinner  on  a  sofa,  where  the  company  found  him,  to 
their  no  small  surprise,  which  was  increased  to  wonder 
when  he  started  up  of  a  sudden,  and  rubbing  his  eyes, 
looked  about  him,  and  launched  into  a  three  hours' 
description  of  the  third  heaven,  of  which  he  had  had  a 
dream,  very  different  from  Mr.  Southey's  Vision  of  Judg- 
ment, and  also  from  that  other  "Vision  of  Judgment,"* 
which  Mr.  Murray,  the  Secretary  of  the  Bridge-street 
Junta,  took  into  his  especial  keeping. 

On  my  way  back  I  had  a  sound  in  my  ears — it  was  the 
voice  of  Fancy;  I  had  a  light  before  me — it  was  the  face 
of  Poetry.  The  one  still  lingers  there,  the  other  has  not 
quitted  my  side !  Coleridge,  in  truth,  met  me  half-way 
on  the  ground  of  philosophy,  or  I  should  not  have  been 
won  over  to  his  imaginative  creed.  I  had  an  uneasy, 
pleasurable  sensation  all  the  time,  till  I  was  to  visit  him. 
During  those  months  the  chill  breath  of  winter  gave 
me  a  welcoming;  the  vernal  air  was  balm  and  inspiration 
to  me.  The  golden  sunsets,  the  silver  star  of  evening, 
lighted  me  on  my  way  to  new  hopes  and  prospects.  / 
was  to  visit  Coleridge  in  the  spring.  This  circumstance 
was  never  absent  from  my  thoughts,  and  mingled  with 

"Vision  of  Judgment,"  by  Byron.  This  poem,  which  satirized 
George  the  Third,  was  sent  to  Byron's  publisher,  Murray,  who  re- 
fused to  print  it. 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  49 

all  my  feelings.  I  wrote  to  him  at  the  time  proposed, 
and  received  an  answer  postponing  my  intended  visit 
for  a  week  or  two,  but  very  cordially  urging  me  to  com- 
plete my  promise  then.  This  delay  did  not  damp,  but 
rather  increased  my  ardor.  In  the  meantime,  I  went  to 
Llangollen  Vale,  by  way  of  initiating  myself  in  the  mys- 
teries of  natural  scenery;  and  I  must  say  I  was  enchanted 
with  it.  I  had  been  reading  Coleridge's  description  of 
England  in  his  fine  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,  and  I  ap- 
plied it,  con  amore,*  to  the  objects  before  me.  That  valley 
was  to  me  (in  a  manner)  the  cradle  of  a  new  existence: 
in  the  river  that  winds  through  it,  my  spirit  was  baptized 
in  the  waters  of  Helicon ! 

I  returned  home,  and  soon  after  set  out  on  my  journey 
with  unworn  heart,  and  un tired  feet.  My  way  lay 
through  Worcester  and  Gloucester,  and  by  Upton, 
where  I  thought  of  Tom  Jonesf  and  the  adventure  of  the 
muff.  I  remember  getting  completely  wet  through  one 
day,  and  stopping  at  an  inn  (I  think  it  was  at  Tewkes- 
bury)  where  I  sat  up  all  night  to  read  Paul  and  Virginia.l 
Sweet  were  the  showers  in  early  youth  that  drenched 
my  body,  and  sweet  the  drops  of  pity  that  fell  upon  the 
books  I  read !  I  recollect  a  remark  of  Coleridge's  upon 
this  very  book  that  nothing  could  show  the  gross  indeli- 
cacy of  French  manners  and  the  entire  corruption  of 
their  imagination  more  strongly  than  the  behavior  of 
the  heroine  in  the  last  fatal  scene,  who  turns  away  from 
a  person  on  board  the  sinking  vessel,  that  offers  to  save 
her  life,  because  he  has  thrown  off  his  clothes  to  assist 
him  in  swimming.  Was  this  a  time  to  think  of  such  a 
circumstance  ?  I  once  hinted  to  Wordsworth,  as  we  were 

*  Con  amore,  earnestly,  with  love. 

t  Tom  Jones,  the  hero  of  the  novel  of  that  name,  by  Henry  Field- 
ing. It  was  a  great  favorite  of  Hazlitt's. 

\  Paid  and  Virginia,  a  novel  by  Bernardin  St.  Pierre. 


60  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

sailing  in  his  boat  on  Grasmere  lake,  that  I  thought  he 
had  borrowed  the  idea  of  his  Poems  on  the  Naming  of 
Places  from  the  local  inscriptions  of  the  same  kind  in 
Paul  and  Virginia.  He  did  not  own  the  obligation,  and 
stated  some  distinction  without  a  difference  in  defense 
to  his  claim  to  originality.  Any,  the  slightest  varia- 
tion, would  be  sufficient  for  this  purpose  in  his  mind; 
for  whatever  he  added  or  altered  would  inevitably  be 
worth  all  that  any  one  else  had  done,  and  contain  the 
marrow  of  the  sentiment.  I  was  still  two  days  before  the 
time  fixed  for  my  arrival,  for  I  had  taken  care  to  set  out 
early  enough.  I  stopped  these  two  days  at  Bridgewater; 
and  when  I  was  tired  of  sauntering  on  the  banks  of  its 
muddy  river,  returned  to  the  inn  and  read  Camilla*  So 
have  I  loitered  my  life  away,  reading  books,  looking  at 
pictures,  going  to  plays,  hearing,  thinking,  writing  on 
what  pleased  me  best.  I  have  wanted  only  one  thing 
to  make  me  happy;  but  wanting  that  have  wanted  every- 
thing ! 

I  arrived,  and  was  well  received.  The  country  about 
Nether  Stowey  is  beautiful,  green  and  hilly,  and  near  the 
seashore.  I  saw  it  but  the  other  day,  after  an  interval 
of  twenty  years,  from  a  hill  near  Taunton.  How  was 
the  map  of  my  life  spread  out  before  me,  as  the  map  of 
the  country  lay  at  my  feet !  In  the  afternoon,  Coleridge 
took  me  over  to  Alfoxden,  a  romantic  old  family  mansion 
of  the  St.  Aubins,  where  Wordsworth  lived.  It  was  then 
in  the  possession  of  a  friend  of  the  poet's,  who  gave  him 
the  free  use  of  it.  Somehow,  that  period  (the  time  just 
after  the  French  Revolution)  was  not  a  time  when  noth- 
ing was  given  for  nothing.  The  mind  opened  and  a  soft- 
ness might  be  perceived  coming  over  the  heart  of  individ- 
uals, beneath  "the  scales  that  fence"  our  self-interest. 

*  Camilla,  a  novel  by  Madame  D'Arblay,  better  known  as  Fanny 
Burney. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  51 

Wordsworth  himself  was  from  home,  but  his  sister  kept 
house,  and  set  before  us  a  frugal  repast;  and  we  had  free 
access  to  her  brother's  poems,  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  which 
were  still  in  manuscript,  or  in  the  form  of  Sybilline  Leaves. 
I  dipped  into  a  few  of  these  with  great  satisfaction,  and 
with  the  faith  of  a  novice.  I  slept  that  night  in  an  old 
room  with  blue  hangings,  and  covered  with  the  round- 
faced  family  portraits  of  the  age  of  George  I.  and  II., 
and  from  the  wooded  declivity  of  the  adjoining  park 
that  overlooked  my  window,  at  the  dawn  of  day,  could 

— "hear  the  loud  stag  speak." 


In  the  outset  of  life  (and  particularly  at  this  time  I 
felt  it  so)  our  imagination  has  a  body  to  it.  We  are  in  a 
state  between  sleeping  and  waking,  and  have  indistinct 
but  glorious  glimpses  of  strange  shapes,  and  there  is 
always  something  to  come  better  than  what  we  see.  As 
in  our  dreams  the  fulness  of  the  blood  gives  warmth  and 
reality  to  the  coinage  of  the  brain,  so  in  youth  our  ideas 
are  clothed,  and  fed,  and  pampered  with  our  good  spirits; 
we  breathe  thick  with  thoughtless  happiness,  the  weight 
of  future  years  presses  on  the  strong  pulses  of  the  heart, 
and  we  repose  with  undisturbed  faith  in  truth  and  good. 
As  we  advance,  we  exhaust  our  fund  of  enjoyment  and 
of  hope.  We  are  no  longer  wrapped  in  lamb's-wool, 
lulled  in  Elysium.  As  we  taste  the  pleasures  of  life, 
their  spirit  evaporates,  the  sense  palls;  and  nothing  is  left 
but  the  phantoms,  the  lifeless  shadows  of  what  has  been! 

That  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  we 
strolled  out  into  the  park,  and  seating  ourselves  on  the 
trunk  of  an  old  ash-tree  that  stretched  along  the  ground, 
Coleridge  read  aloud  with  a  sonorous  and  musical  voice, 
the  ballad  of  "Betty  Foy."*  I  was  not  critically  or 

*  "  Betty  Foy  "  and  the  other  poems  here  mentioned  are  by  Words- 
worth. 


52  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

sceptically  inclined.  I  saw  touches  of  truth  and  nature, 
and  took  the  rest  for  granted.  But  in  the  "  Thorn,"  the 
"Mad  Mother,"  and  the  "Complaint  of  a  Poor  Indian 
Woman,"  I  felt  that  deeper  power  and  pathos  which  have 
been  since  acknowledged, 


"In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite,'M 

as  the  characteristics  of  this  author;  and  the  sense  of  a 
new  style  and  a  new  spirit  in  poetry  came  over  me.  It 
had  to  me  something  of  the  effect  that  arises  from  the 
turning  up  of  the  fresh  soil,  or  of  the  first  welcome  breath 
of  Spring: 

"While  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed."  f 

Coleridge  and  myself  walked  back  to  Stowey  that  eve- 
ning, and  his  voice  sounded  high 

"Of  Providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute,"  { 

as  we  passed  through  echoing  grove,  by  fairy  stream  or 
waterfall,  gleaming  in  the  summer  moonlight!  He  la- 
mented that  Wordsworth  was  not  prone  enough  to  be- 
lieve in  the  traditional  superstitions  of  the  place,  and 
that  there  was  a  something  corporeal,  a  matter-of-fact- 
ness,  a  clinging  to  the  palpable,  or  often  to  the  petty,  in 
his  poetry,  in  consequence.  His  genius  was  not  a  spirit 
that  descended  to  him  through  the  air;  it  sprung  out  of 
the  ground  like  a  flower,  or  unfolded  itself  from  a  green 
spray,  on  which  the  goldfinch  sang.  He  said,  however 
(if  I  remember  right),  that  this  objection  must  be  con- 
fined to  his  descriptive  pieces,  that  his  philosophic  poetry 
had  a  grand  and  comprehensive  spirit  in  it,  so  that  his 

*  From  Pope's  Essay  on  Man.  f  From  Thomson's  Seasons. 

J  From  Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  53 

soul  seemed  to  inhabit  the  universe  like  a  palace,  and  to 
discover  truth  by  intuition,  rather  than  by  deduction. 
The  next  day  Wordsworth  arrived  from  Bristol  at 
Coleridge's  cottage.  I  think  I  see  him  now.  He  an- 
swered in  some  degree  to  his  friend's  description  of  him, 
but  was  more  gaunt  and  Don  Quixote-like.  He  was 
quaintly  dressed  (according  to  the  costume  of  that  un- 
constrained period)  in  a  brown  fustian  jacket  and  striped 
pantaloons.  There  was  something  of  a  roll,  a  lounge  in 
his  gait,  not  unlike  his  own  Peter  Bell.  There  was  a 
severe,  worn  pressure  of  thought  about  his  temples,  a 
fire  in  his  eye  (as  if  he  saw  something  in  objects  more 
than  the  outward  appearance),  an  intense,  high,  narrow 
forehead,  a  Roman  nose,  cheeks  furrowed  by  strong 
purpose  and  feeling,  and  a  convulsive  inclination  to 
laughter  about  the  mouth,  a  good  deal  at  variance  with 
the  solemn,  stately  expression  of  the  rest  of  his  face. 
Chantrey's  bust  wants  the  marking  traits;  but  he  was 
teased  into  making  it  regular  and  heavy:  Haydon's 
head  of  him,  introduced  into  the  Entrance  of  Christ  into 
Jerusalem,  is  the  most  like  his  drooping  weight  of  thought 
and  expression.  He  sat  down  and  talked  very  naturally 
and  freely,  with  a  mixture  of  clear,  gushing  accents  in 
his  voice,  a  deep  guttural  intonation,  and  a  strong  tinc- 
ture of  the  northern  burr,  like  the  crust  on  wine.  He 
instantly  began  to  make  havoc  of  the  half  of  a  Cheshire 
cheese  on  the  table,  and  said,  triumphantly,  that  "his 
marriage  with  experience  had  not  been  so  productive  as 
Mr.  Southey's  in  teaching  him  a  knowledge  of  the  good 
things  of  this  life."  He  had  been  to  see  the  Castk  Specter 
by  Monk  Lewis,  while  at  Bristol,  and  described  it  very 
well.  He  said  "it  fitted  the  taste  of  the  audience  like  a 
glove."  This  ad  captandum  *  merit  was  however  by  no 
means  a  recommendation  of  it,  according  to  the  severe 
*  Ad  captandum,  to  catch  the  crowd. 


54  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

principles  of  the  new  school,  which  reject  rather  than 
court  popular  effect.  Wordsworth,  looking  out  of  the 
low,  latticed  window,  said,  "How  beautifully  the  sun 
sets  on  that  yellow  bank!"  I  thought  within  myself, 
"With  what  eyes  these  poets  see  nature !"  and  ever  after, 
when  I  saw  the  sunset  stream  upon  the  objects  facing  it, 
conceived  I  had  made  a  discovery,  or  thanked  Mr.  Words- 
worth for  having  made  one  for  me ! 

We  went  over  to  Alfoxden  again  the  day  following, 
and  Wordsworth  read  us  the  story  of  Peter  Bell  in  the 
open  air;  and  the  comment  upon  it  by  his  face  and  voice 
was  very  different  from  that  of  some  later  critics !  What- 
ever might  be  thought  of  the  poem,  "his  face  was  as  a 
book  where  men  might  read  strange  matters,"  *  and  he 
announced  the  fate  of  his  hero  in  prophetic  tones.  There 
is  a  ckaunt  in  the  recitation  both  of  Coleridge  and  Words- 
worth, which  acts  as  a  spell  upon  the  hearer,  and  disarms 
the  judgment.  Perhaps  they  have  deceived  themselves 
by  making  habitual  use  of  this  ambiguous  accompani- 
ment. Coleridge's  manner  is  more  full,  animated,  and 
varied;  Wordsworth's  more  equable,  sustained,  and  in- 
ternal. The  one  might  be  termed  more  dramatic,  the 
other  more  lyrical.  Coleridge  has  told  me  that  he  him- 
self liked  to  compose  in  walking  over  uneven  ground,  or 
breaking  through  the  straggling  branches  of  a  copse 
wood;  whereas  Wordsworth  always  wrote  (if  he  could) 
walking  up  and  down  a  straight  gravel  walk,  or  in  some 
spot  where  the  continuity  of  his  verse  met  with  no  col- 
lateral interruption.  Returning  that  same  evening,  I 
got  into  a  metaphysical  argument  with  Wordswerth, 
while  Coleridge  was  explaining  the  different  notes  of  the 
nightingale  to  his  sister,  in  which  we  neither  of  us  suc- 
ceeded in  making  ourselves  perfectly  clear  and  intell'^i- 
Ue.  Thus  I  passed  three  weeks  at  Nether  Stowey  f  Vi 
*  From  Macbeth,  I,  v,  63. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  55 

in  the  neighborhood,  generally  devoting  the  afternoons  to 
a  delightful  chat  in  an  arbor  made  of  bark  by  the  poet's 
friend  Tom  Poole,  sitting  under  two  fine  elm-trees,  and 
listening  to  the  bees  humming  round  us  while  we  quaffed 
our  flip. 

It  was  agreed,  among  other  things,  that  we  should 
make  a  jaunt  down  the  Bristol  Channel,  as  far  as  Linton. 
We  pet  off  together  on  foot,  Coleridge,  John  Chester,  and 
I.  This  Chester  was  a  native  of  Nether  Stowey,  one  of 
those  who  were  attracted  to  Coleridge's  discourse  as 
flies  are  to  honey,  or  bees  in  swarming- time  to  the  sound 
of  a  brass  pan.  He  "followed  in  the  chase  like  a  dog  who 
hunts,  not  like  one  that  made  up  the  cry."  *  He  had  on 
a  brown  cloth  coat,  boots,  and  corduroy  breeches,  was  low 
in  stature,  bow-legged,  had  a  drag  in  his  walk  like  a 
drover,  which  he  assisted  by  a  hazel  switch,  and  kept  on  a 
sort  of  trot  by  the  side  of  Coleridge,  like  a  running  foot- 
man by  a  state  coach,  that  he  might  not  lose  a  syllable  or 
Bound  that  fell  from  Coleridge's  lips.  He  told  me  his 
private  opinion,  that  Coleridge  was  a  wonderful  man.  He 
scarcely  opened  his  lips,  much  less  offered  an  opinion  the 
whole  way:  yet  of  the  three,  had  I  to  choose  during  that 
journey,  I  would  be  John  Chester.  He  afterward  fol- 
lowed Coleridge  into  Germany,  where  the  Kantean 
philosophers  were  puzzled  how  to  bring  him  under  any 
of  their  categories.  When  he  sat  down  at  table  with  his 
idol,  John's  felicity  was  complete;  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  or 
Mr.  Blackwood's,  when  they  sat  down  at  the  same  table 
with  the  king,  was  not  more  so.  We  passed  Dunster  on 
our  right,  a  small  town  between  the  brow  of  a  hill  and  the 
Bea.  I  remember  eying  it  wistfully  as  it  lay  below  us: 
contrasted  with  the  woody  scene  around,  it  looked  as 
clear,  as  pure,  as  embrowned  and  ideal  as  any  landscape  I 
have  seen  since,  of  Caspar  Poussin's  or  Domenichmo'a. 
*  From  Othello,  II,  iii,  370. 


56  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

We  had  a  long  day's  march  (our  feet  kept  time  to  the 
echoes  of  Coleridge's  tongue)  through  Minehead  and  by 
the  Blue  Anchor,  and  on  to  Linton,  which  we  did  not 
reach  till  near  midnight,  and  where  we  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  making  a  lodgment.  We,  however,  knocked  the 
people  of  the  house  up  at  last,  and  we  were  repaid  for  our 
apprehensions  and  fatigue  by  some  excellent  rashers  of 
fried  bacon  and  eggs.  The  view  in  coming  along  had 
been  splendid.  We  walked  for  miles  and  miles  on  dark 
brown  heaths  overlooking  the  Channel,  with  the  Welsh 
hills  beyond,  and  at  times  descended  into  little  sheltered 
valleys  close  by  the  seaside,  with  a  smuggler's  face  scowl- 
ing by  us,  and  then  had  to  ascend  conical  hills  with  a 
path  winding  up  through  a  coppice  to  a  barren  top,  like 
a  monk's  shaven  crown,  from  one  of  which  I  pointed  out 
to  Coleridge's  notice  the  bare  masts  of  a  vessel  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  horizon,  and  within  the  red-orbed  disk  of  the 
setting  sun,  like  his  own  spectre-ship  in  the  Ancient 
Manner. 

At  Linton  the  character  of  the  seacoast  becomes  more 
marked  and  rugged.  There  is  a  place  called  the  Valley 
of  Rocks  (I  suspect  this  was  only  the  poetical  name  for 
it),  bedded  among  precipices  overhanging  the  sea,  with 
rocky  caverns  beneath,  into  which  the  waves  dash,  and 
where  the  sea-gull  forever  wheels  its  screaming  flight. 
On  the  tops  of  these  are  huge  stones  thrown  transverse, 
as  if  an  earthquake  had  tossed  them  there,  and  behind 
these  is  a  fretwork  of  perpendicular  rocks,  something  like 
the  Giant's  Causeway.  A  thunder-storm  came  on  while 
we  were  at  the  inn,  and  Coleridge  was  running  out  bare- 
headed to  enjoy  the  commotion  of  the  elements  in  the 
Valley  of  Rocks,  but  as  if  in  spite,  the  clouds  only  mut- 
tered a  few  angry  sounds,  and  let  fall  a  few  refreshing 
drops.  Coleridge  told  me  that  he  and  Wordsworth  were 
to  have  made  this  place  the  scene  of  a  prose-tale,  which 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  57 

was  to  have  been  in  the  manner  of,  but  far  superior  to, 
the  Death  of  Abel,  but  they  had  relinquished  the  design. 
In  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  we  breakfasted  luxuri- 
ously in  an  old-fashioned  parlor  on  tea,  toast,  eggs,  and 
honey,  in  the  very  sight  of  the  beehives  from  which  it 
had  been  taken,  and  a  garden  full  of  thyme  and  wild 
flowers  that  had  produced  it. 

On  this  occasion  Coleridge  spoke  of  Virgil's  Georgics, 
but  not  well.  I  do  not  think  he  had  much  feeling  for 
the  classical  or  elegant.*  It  was  in  this  room  that  we 
found  a  little  worn-out  copy  of  the  Seasons,  lying  in  a 
window-seat,  on  which  Coleridge  exclaimed,  "That  is 
true  fame!"  He  said  Thomson  was  a  great  poet,  rather 
than  a  good  one;  his  style  was  as  meretricious  as  his 
thoughts  were  natural.  He  spoke  of  Cowper  as  the  best 
modern  poet.  He  said  the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  an  ex- 
periment about  to  be  tried  by  him  and  Wordsworth, 
to  see  how  far  the  public  taste  would  endure  poetry  written 
in  a  more  natural  and  simple  style  than  had  hitherto  been 
attempted;  totally  discarding  the  artifices  of  poetical 
diction,  and  making  use  only  of  such  words  as  had  prob- 
ably been  common  in  the  most  ordinary  language  since 
the  days  of  Henry  II.  Some  comparison  was  introduced 
between  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  He  said  "he  hardly 
knew  which  to  prefer.  Shakespeare  appeared  to  him  a 
mere  stripling  in  the  art;  he  was  as  tall  and  as  strong, 
with  infinitely  more  activity  than  Milton,  but  he  never 
appeared  to  have  come  to  man's  estate;  or  if  he  had,  he 

*  He  had  no  idea  of  pictures,  of  Claude  or  Raphael,  and  at  this 
time  I  had  as  little  as  he.  He  sometimes  gives  a  striking  account 
at  present  of  the  Cartoons  at  Pisa  by  Buffamalco  and  others;  of  one 
in  particular,  where  Death  is  seen  in  the  air  brandishing  his  scythe, 
and  the  great  and  mighty  of  the  earth  shudder  at  his  approach, 
while  the  beggars  and  the  wretched  kneel  to  him  as  their  deliverer. 
He  would,  of  course,  understand  so  broad  and  fine  a  moral  as  this 
at  any  time.  (Hazlitt's  note.) 


58  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

would  not  have  been  a  man,  but  a  monster."  He  spoke 
with  contempt  of  Gray,  and  with  intolerance  of  Pope. 
He  did  not  like  the  versification  of  the  latter.  He  ob- 
served that  "the  ears  of  these  couplet  writers  might  be 
charged  with  having  short  memories,  that  could  not  re- 
tain the  harmony  of  whole  passages."  He  thought  little 
of  Junius  as  a  writer;  he  had  a  dislike  of  Dr.  Johnson; 
and  a  much  higher  opinion  of  Burke  as  an  orator  and 
politician,  than  of  Fox  or  Pitt.  He,  however,  thought 
him  very  inferior  in  richness  of  style  and  imagery  to  some 
of  our  elder  prose-writers,  particularly  Jeremy  Taylor. 
He  liked  Richardson,  but  not  Fielding;  nor  could  I  get 
him  to  enter  into  the  merits  of  Caleb  Williams*  In  short, 
he  was  profound  and  discriminating  with  respect  to  those 
authors  whom  he  liked,  and  where  he  gave  his  judgment 
fair  play;  capricious,  pre verse,  and  prejudiced  in  his 
antipathies  and  distastes. 

We  loitered  on  the  "ribbed  sea  sands,"  in  such  talk  as 
this  a  whole  morning,  and,  I  recollect,  met  with  a  curi- 
ous seaweed,  of  which  John  Chester  told  us  the  country 
name !  A  fisherman  gave  Coleridge  an  account  of  a  boy 
that  had  been  drowned  the  day  before,  and  that  they  had 
tried  to  save  him  at  the  risk  of  their  own  lives.  He  said 
"he  did  not  know  how  it  was  that  they  ventured,  but, 
Sir,  we  have  a  nature  toward  one  another."  This  expres- 
sion, Coleridge  remarked  to  me,  was  a  fine  illustration  of 
that  theory  of  disinterestedness  which  I  (in  common  with 
Butler)  had  adopted.  I  broached  to  him  an  argument  of 
mine  to  prove  that  likeness  was  not  mere  association  of 
ideas.  I  said  that  the  mark  in  the  sand  put  one  in  mind 
of  a  man's  foot,  not  because  it  was  part  of  a  former  im- 
pression of  a  man's  foot  (for  it  was  quite  new),  but  be- 
cause it  was  like  the  shape  of  a  man's  foot.  He  assented 
to  the  justness  of  this  distinction  (which  I  have  explained 

*  Caleb  Williams,  a  political  novel  by  Godwin,  famous  in  its  day. 


\\LLLLAM    HAZll'lT  59 

at  length  elsewhere,  for  the  benefit  of  the  curious)  and 
John  Chester  listened;  not  from  any  interest  in  the  sub- 
ject, but  because  he  was  astonished  that  I  should  be  able 
to  suggest  anything  to  Coleridge  that  he  did  not  already 
know.  We  returned  on  the  third  morning,  and  Coleridge 
remarked  the  silent  cottage-smoke  curling  up  the  valleys 
where,  a  few  evenings  before,  we  had  seen  the  lights 
gleaming  through  the  dark. 

In  a  day  or  two  after  we  arrived  at  Stowey,  we  set 
out,  I  on  my  return  home,  and  he  for  Germany.  It 
was  a  Sunday  morning,  and  he  was  to  preach  that  day 
for  Dr.  Toulmin  of  Taunton.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  pre- 
pared anything  for  the  occasion?  He  said  he  had  not 
even  thought  of  the  text,  but  should  as  soon  as  we  parted. 
I  did  not  go  to  hear  him — this  was  a  fault — but  we  met 
in  the  evening  at  Bridgewater.  The  next  day  we  had  a 
long  day's  walk  to  Bristol,  and  sat  down,  I  recollect,  by  a 
well  side  on  the  road,  to  cool  ourselves  and  satisfy  our 
thirst,  when  Coleridge  repeated  to  me  some  descriptive 
lines  of  his  tragedy  of  Remorse ;  which  I  must  say  became 
his  mouth  and  that  occasion  better  than  they,  some  years 
after,  did  Mr.  Elliston's  and  the  Drury-lane  *  boards — 

"Oh  memory!  shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life." 

I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  year  or  two,  during  which 
period  he  had  been  wandering  in  the  Hartz  Forest,  in 
Germany;  and  his  return  was  cometary,  meteorous,  un- 
like his  setting  out.  It  was  not  till  some  time  after  that 
I  knew  his  friends  Lamb  and  Southey.  The  last  always 
appears  to  me  (as  I  first  saw  him)  with  a  commonplace 
book  under  his  arm,  and  the  first  with  a  bon  mot  in  his 
mouth.  It  was  at  Godwin's  that  I  met  him  with  Hoi- 
croft  and  Coleridge,  where  they  were  disputing  fiercely 

*  Drury  Lane,  a  famous  London  theatre.     Elliston  acted  there. 


60  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

which  was  the  best — M an  as  he  was,  or  man  as  he  is  to  be. 
"Give  me,"  says  Lamb,  "man  as  he  is  not  to  be."  This 
saying  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  us  which 
I  believe  still  continues.  Enough  of  this  for  the  present. 

"But  there  is  matter  for  another  rime, 
And  I  to  this  may  add  a  second  tale." 


LEIGH  HUNT 

ON  GETTING  UP  ON  COLD  MORNINGS 


Leigh  Hunt  (1784-1859)  was  a  London  boy ;~  fee  received 
his  early  education  in  the  Christ's  Hospital  School,  as 
did  Charles  Lamb.  He  very  early  began  to  write  verse, 
which  his  father  published  under  the  title,  A  Collection  of 
Poems  Written  between  the  Ages  of  Twelve  and  Sixteen. 
In  1808  Leigh  ^and  his  brother  John  started  a  newspaper 
called  the  Examiner.  For  certain  articles  in  this  criti- 
cising the  Prince  Regent,  the  editors  were  prosecuted 
and  imprisoned  for  two  years.  Here  they  continued 
their  writing  and  entertained  their  friends;  Thomas 
Moore,  Byron,  and  John  Keats  came  to  see  them.  After 
Hunt's  release  he  continued  his  literary  work,  writing 
criticism,  book  reviews,  essays,  plays,  and  poems.  In  1822 
he  went  to  Italy  to  edit  The  Liberal,  at  a  safe  distance 
from  England.  Charles  Dickens  in  Bleak  House  carica- 
tured Hunt  as  Harold  Skimpole,  magnifying  some  of  his 
weaknesses.^1  Hunt's  best-known  works  are  his  Autobi- 
ography, an  interesting  book,  and  the  volumes  of  essays 
entitled,  Men,  Women,  and  Books  and  Table  Talk.  While 
he  does  not  rank  among  the  greater  English  essayists,  his 
writing  has  a  freedom  and  spontaneity  that  make  it  very 
pleasant  reading. 


LEIGH  HUNT 

ON  GETTING  UP  ON  COLD  MORNINGS 

(From  the  Examiner) 

An  Italian  author — Giulio  Cordara,  a  Jesuit — has 
written  a  poem  upon  insects,  which  he  begins  by  insist- 
ing, that  those  troublesome  and  abominable  little  animals 
were  created  for  our  annoyance,  and  that  they  were  cer- 
tainly not  inhabitants  of  Paradise.  We  of  the  north  may 
dispute  this  piece  of  theology;  but  on  the  other  hand,  it 
is  as  clear  as  the  snow  on  the  housetops,  that  Adam  was 
not  under  the  necessity  of  shaving;  and  that  when  Eve 
walked  out  of  her  delicious  bower,  she  did  not  step  upon 
ice  three  inches  thick. 

Some  people  say  it  is  a  very  easy  thing  to  get  up  of  a 
cold  morning.  You  have  only,  they  tell  you,  to  take  the 
resolution;  and  the  thing  is  done.  This  may  be  very  true; 
just  as  a  boy  at  school  has  only  to  take  a  flogging,  and 
the  thing  is  over.  But  we  have  not  at  all  made  up  our 
minds  upon  it;  and  we  find  it  a  very  pleasant  exercise  to 
<iiscuss  the  matter,  candidly,  before  we  get  up.  This, 
at  least,  is  not  idling,  though  it  may  be  lying.  It  affords 
an  excellent  answer  to  those  who  ask  how  lying  in  bed  can 
be  indulged  in  by  a  reasoning  being, — a  rational  crea- 
ture. How?  Why,  with  the  argument  calmly  at  work 
in  one's  head,  and  the  clothes  over  one's  shoulder.  Oh — 
it  is  a  fine  way  of  spending  a  sensible,  impartial  half-hour. 

If  these  people  would  be  more  charitable  they  would 
get  on  with  their  argument  better.  But  they  are  apt 
to  reason  so  ill,  and  to  assert  so  dogmatically,  that  one 
could  wish  to  have  them  stand  round  one's  bed,  of  a 

63 


64  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

bitter  morning,  and  lie  before  their  faces.  They  ought 
to  hear  both  sides  of  the  bed,  the  inside  and  out.  If 
they  cannot  entertain  themselves  with  their  own  thoughts 
for  half  an  hour  or  so,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  those  who  can. 
Candid  inquiries  into  one's  decumbency,  besides  the 
greater  or  less  privileges  to  be  allowed  a  man  in  propor- 
tion to  his  ability  of  keeping  early  hours,  the  work  given 
his  faculties,  etc.,  will  at  least  concede  their  due  merits 
to  such  representations  as  the  following.^  In  the  first 
place,  says  the  injured  but  calm  appealer,^!  have  been 
warm  all  night,  and  find  my  system  in  a  state  perfectly 
suitable  to  a  warm-blooded  animal. ,  To  get  out  of  this 
state  into  the  cold,  besides  the  inharmonious  and  un- 
critical abruptness  of  the  transition,  is  so  unnatural  to 
such  a  creature,  that  the  poets,  refining  upon  the  tor- 
tures of  the  damned,  make  one  of  their  greatest  agonies 
consist  in  being  suddenly  transported  from  heat  to  cold, — 
from  fire  to  ice.  They  are  "haled"  out  of  their  "beds," 
says  Milton,  by  "harpy-footed  furies,"— fellows  who 
come  to  call  them.  •  On  my  first  movement  toward  the 
anticipation  of  getting  up  I  find  that  such  parts  of  the 
sheets  and  bolster  as  are  exposed  to  the  air  of  the  room 
are  stone-cold.  On  opening  my  eyes,  the  first  thing  that 
meets  them  us  my  own  breath  rolling  forth,  as  if  in  the 
open  air,  like  smoke  out  of  a  chimney.  Think  of  this 
symptom.  Then  I  turn  my  eyes  sideways  and  see  the 
window  all  frozen  over.  Think  of  that.  Then  the  ser- 
vant comes  in.  "It  is  very  cold  this  morning,  is  it 
not? "-"Very  cold,  sir."—" Very  cold  indeed,  isn't  it?" 
—"Very  cold  indeed,  sir."— "More  than  usually  so, 
isn't  it,  even  for  this  weather?"  (Here  the  servant's 
wit  and  good  nature  are  put  to  a  considerable  test,  and 
the  inquirer  lies  on  thorns  for  the  answer.)  "Why, 
sir  ...  I  think  it  is."  (Good  creature !  There  is  not 
a  better  or  more  truth-telling  servant  going.)  "I  must 


LEIGH  HUNT  65 

rise,  however — get  me  some  warm  water." — Here  comes 
a  fine  interval  between  the  departure  of  the  servant  and 
the  arrival  of  the  hot  water;  during  which,  of  course,  it  is 
of  "no  use"  to  get  up.  The  hot  water  comes.  "Is  it 
quite  hot?" — "Yes,  sir." — "Perhaps  too  hot  for  shaving; 
I  must  wait  a  little  ?  "— "  No,  sir;  it  will  just  do."  (There 
is  an  overnice  propriety  sometimes,  an  officious  zeal  of 
virtue,  a  little  troublesome.)  "Oh — the  shirt — you  must 
air  my  clean  shirt; — linen  gets  very  damp  this  weather." 
— "Yes,  sir."  Here  another  delicious  five  minutes.  A 
knock  at  the  door.  "Oh,  the  shirt — very  well.  My 
stockings — I  think  the  stockings  had  better  be  aired  too." 
— "Very  well,  sir."  Here  another  interval.  At  length 
everything  is  ready,  except  myself. 

I  now,  continues  our  incumbent  (a  happy  word,  by 
the  by,  for  a  country  vicar)— I  now  cannot  help  thinking 
a  good  deal — who  can? — upon  the  unnecessary  and  vil- 
lainous custom  of  shaving:  it  is  a  thing  so  unmanly  (here 
I  nestle  closer) — so  effeminate  (here  I  recoil  from  an  un- 
lucky step  into  the  colder  part  of  the  bed). — No  wonder 
that  the  Queen  of  France  took  part  with  the  rebels  against 
that  degenerate  king,  her  husband,  who  first  affronted 
her  smooth  visage  with  a  face  like  her  own.  The  Em- 
peror Julian  never  showed  the  luxuriancy  of  his  genius 
to  better  advantage  than  in  reviving  the  flowing  beard. 
Look  at  Cardinal  Bembo's  picture — at  Michael  Angelo's 
— ftt  XitHn'q— at  Shakespeare's  at.  FlotefaeT*s—  at  Spen- 
ser's—at Chaucer's— at  Alfred's— at  Plato's— I  could 
name  a  great  man  for  every  tick  of  my  watch. — Look  at 
the  Turks,  a  grave  and  otiose  people.— Thinlr  nf-ILitew*" 
Al  Unnnhirl  nTTrf-TrrrfTrrlrlrin  Pmmr  Thinlr  of  Wortley- 
Montague,  the  worthy  son  of  his  mother,  above  the  preju- 
dice of  his  time. — Look  at  the  Persian  gentlemen,  whom 
one  is  ashamed  of  meeting  about  the  suburbs,  their  dress 
and  appearance  are  so  much  finer  than  our  own. — Lastly, 


66  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

think  of  the  razor  itself— how  totally  opposed  to  every 
sensation  of  bed — how  cold,  how  edgy,  how  hard!  how 
utterly  different  from  anything  like  the  warm  and  circling 
amplitude,  which 

Sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses.* 

Add  to  this,  benumbed  fingers,  which  may  help  you  to 
cut  yourself,  a  quivering  body,  a  frozen  towel,  and  a  ewer 
full  of  ice;  and  he  that  says  there  is  nothing  to  oppose 
in  all  this,  only  shows  that  he  has  no  merit  in  opposing 
it. 

Thomson  the  poet,  who  exclaims  in  his  Seasons — 

Falsely  luxurious !    Will  not  man  awake? 

used  to  lie  in  bed  till  noon,  because  he  said  he  had  no 
motive  in  getting  up.  He  could  imagine  the  good  of 
rising;  but  then  he  could  also  imagine  the  good  of  lying 
still;  and  his  exclamation,  it  must  be  allowed,  was  made 
upon  summer-time,  not  winter.  We  must  proportion 
the  argument  to  the  individual  character.  A  money- 
getter  may  be  drawn  out  of  his  bed  by  three  or  four  pence; 
but  this  will  not  suffice  for  a  student.  A  proud  man  may 
say,  "What  shall  I  think  of  myself,  if  I  don't  get  up?" 
but  the  more  humble  one  will  be  content  to  waive  this 
prodigious  notion  of  himself,  out  of  respect  to  his  kindly 
bed.  ;  The  mechanical  man  shall  get  up  without  any  ado 
at  all;  and  so  shall  the  barometer.  An  ingenious  Her  in 
bed  will  find  hard  matter  of  discussion  even  on  the  score 
of  health  and  longevity.  He  will  ask  us  for  our  proofs 
and  precedents  of  the  ill  effects  of  lying  later  in  cold 
weather;  and  sophisticate  much  on  the  advantages  of  an 
even  temperature  of  body;  of  the  natural  propensity 
(pretty  universal)  to  have  one's  way;  and  of  the  animals 

*  From  Macbeth,  I,  vi,  3. 


LEIGH  HUNT  67 

that  roll  themselves  up  and  sleep  all  the  winter.  As  to 
longevity,  he  will  ask  whether  the  longest  is  of  necessity 
the  best;  and  whether  Holborn  is  the  handsomest  street 
in  London. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

ON  A  LAZY  IDLE  BOY 


William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811-1863)  one  of  the 
leading  writers  of  the  Victorian  age,  was  born  in  Calcutta; 
at  six  he  was  sent  to  England  to  be  educated.  He  entered 
the  Charterhouse  school  in  London,  a  place  that  appears 
as  Greyfriars  in  his  novel  Pendennis.  He  attended  Trin- 
ity College,  Cambridge,  but  did  not  graduate.  He  spent 
some  years  abroad,  partly  in  rambling  over  Europe,  partly 
in  studying  art  in  Paris.  His  ability  in  this  direction 
was  shown  later  in  the  illustrations  he  made  for  his  own 
books.  He  learned  German  at  Weimar;  the  essay  On  a 
Lazy  Idle  Boy,  contains  a  reminiscence  of  this  period. 
On  his  return  to  England  he  became  a  contributor  to  vari- 
ous magazines,  writing  sketches  of  Paris  and  Irish  life. 
His  first  novel,  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,  appeared 
in  1841,  but  it  was  not  until  the  publication  of  Vanity 
Fair  (1847)  that  he  became  famous  as  a  novelist.  He  de- 
livered a  course  of  lectures  on  English  history;  his  success 
in  this  field  led  him  to  make  lecture  tours  to  America  in 
1852  and  1855.  His  lectures  were  later  published  in  two 
volumes,  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  and 
The  Four  Georges.  He  was  the  first  editor  of  the  Corn- 
hill  Magazine,  and  contributed  to  it  a  series  of  essays  en- 
titled The  Roundabout  Papers.  These  reveal  the  person- 
ality of  a  man  whom  Thomas  Carlyle — a  man  not  given 
to  sentiment — always  called  "dear  old  Thackeray/'  Easy 
in  style,  yet  never  undignified;  worldly-wise,  yet  not 
cynical;  shrewd,  but  not  sarcastic,  the  essays  are  the 
best  talk  of  one  of  the  best  of  gentlemen. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 

ON  A  LAZY  IDLE  BOY 

(From  the  Roundabout  Papers) 

I  had  occasion  to  pass  a  week  in  the  autumn  in  the 
little  old  town  of  Coire  or  Chur,  in  the  Orisons,*  where 
lies  buried  that  very  ancient  British  king,  saint,  and 
martyr,  Lucius,f  who  founded  the  Church  of  St.  Peter, 
on  Cornhill.  Few  people  note  the  church  nowadays,  and 
fewer  ever  heard  of  the  saint.  In  the  cathedral  at  Chur, 
his  statue  appears  surrounded  by  other  sainted  persons 
of  his  family.  With  tight  red  breeches,  a  Roman  habit, 
a  curly  brown  beard,  and  a  neat  little  gilt  crown  and 
sceptre,  he  stands,  a  very  comely  and  cheerful  image: 
and  from  what  I  may  call  his  peculiar  position  with  re- 
gard to  Cornhill,  I  beheld  this  figure  of  St.  Lucius  with 
more  interest  than  I  should  have  bestowed  upon  person- 
ages who,  hierarchically,  are,  I  dare  say,  his  superiors. 

The  pretty  little  city  stands,  so  to  speak,  at  the  end 
of  the  world — of  the  world  of  to-day,  the  world  of  rapid 
motion,  and  rushing  railways,  and  the  commerce  and 
intercourse  of  men.  From  the  northern  gate,  the  iron 
road  stretches  away  to  Zurich,  to  Basle,  to  Paris,  to 
home.  From  the  old  southern  barriers,  before  which  a 

*  Grisons,  a  canton  of  Switzerland.    Chur  is  the  capital. 

fStow  quotes  the  inscription  still  extant  "from  the  table  fast 
chained  in  St.  Peter's  Church,  Cornhill";  and  says,  "he  was  after 
some  chronicle  buried  at  London,  and  after  some  chronicle  buried 
at  Glowcester" — but,  oh!  these  incorrect  chroniclers!  when  Alban 
Butler,  in  the  Lives  of  the  Saints,  v.  12,  and  Murray's  Handbook, 
and  the  sacristan  at  Chur,  all  say  Lucius  was  killed  there,  and  I 
saw  his  tomb  with  my  own  eyes.  (Thackeray's  note.) 

71 


72  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

little  river  rushes,  and  around  which  stretch  the  crumbling 
battlements  of  the  ancient  town,  the  road  bears  the  slow 
diligence  or  lagging  vetturino  *  by  the  shallow  Rhine, 
through  the  awful  gorges  of  the  Via  Mala,  and  presently 
over  the  Spliigen  to  the  shores  of  Como. 

I  have  seldom  seen  a  place  more  quaint,  pretty,  calm, 
and  pastoral,  than  this  remote  little  Chur.  What  need 
have  the  inhabitants  for  walls  and  ramparts,  except  to 
build  summer-houses,  to  trail  vines,  and  hang  clothes  to 
dry  on  them  ?  No  enemies  approach  the  great  mouldering 
gates:  only  at  morn  and  even  the  cows  come  lowing  past 
them,  the  village  maidens  chatter  merrily  round  the 
fountains,  and  babble  like  the  ever-voluble  stream  that 
flows  under  the  old  walls.  The  schoolboys,  with  book 
and  satchel,  in  smart  uniforms,  march  up  to  the  gym- 
nasium, f  and  return  thence  at  their  stated  time.  There 
is  one  coffee-house  in  the  town,  and  I  see  one  old  gentle- 
man goes  to  it.  There  are  shops  with  no  customers 
seemingly,  and  the  lazy  tradesmen  look  out  of  their  little 
windows  at  the  single  stranger  sauntering  by.  There  is 
a  stall  with  baskets  of  queer  little  black  grapes  and  apples, 
and  a  pretty  brisk  trade  with  half-a-dozen  urchins  stand- 
ing round.  But,  beyond  this,  there  is  scarce  any  talk  or 
movement  in  the  street.  There's  nobody  at  the  book- 
shop. "If  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  come  again  in 
an  hour,"  says  the  banker,  with  his  mouth  full  of  dinner 
at  one  o'clock,  "you  can  have  the  money."  There  is 
nobody  at  the  hotel,  save  the  good  landlady,  the  kind 
waiters,  the  brisk  young  cook  who  ministers  to  you.  No- 
body is  in  the  Protestant  church — (Oh !  strange  sight,  the 
two  confessions  are  here  at  peace !) — nobody  in  the  Catho- 
lic church:  until  the  sacristan,  from  his  snug  abode  in  the 
cathedral  close,  espies  the  traveller  eying  the  monsters 

*  Vetturino,  a  four-wheeled  carriage. 

t  Gymnasium,  a  school  which  prepares  for  the  university. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY       73 

and  pillars  before  the  old  shark-toothed  arch  of  his  cathe- 
dral, and  comes  out  (with  a  view  to  remuneration  possi- 
bly) and  opens  the  gate,  and  shows  you  the  venerable 
church,  and  the  queer  old  relics  in  the  sacristy,  and  the 
ancient  vestments  (a  black  velvet  cope,  amongst  other 
robes,  as  fresh  as  yesterday,  and  presented  by  that  no- 
torious "pervert/'  Henry  of  Navarre  and  France),  and 
the  statue  of  St.  Lucius  who  built  St.  Peter's  Church, 
on  Cornhill. 

What  a  quiet,  kind,  quaint,  pleasant,  pretty  old  town ! 
Has  it  been  asleep  these  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years, 
and  is  the  brisk  young  Prince  of  the  Sidereal  Realms  in 
his  screaming  car  drawn  by  his  snorting  steel  elephant 
coming  to  waken  it?  Time  was  when  there  must  have 
been  life  and  bustle  and  commerce  here.  Those  vast, 
venerable  walls  were  not  made  to  keep  out  cows,  but 
men-at-arms,  led  by  fierce  captains,  who  prowled  about 
the  gates,  and  robbed  the  traders  as  they  passed  in  and 
out  with  their  bales,  their  goods,  their  pack-horses,  and 
their  wains.  Is  the  place  so  dead  that  even  the  clergy  of 
the  different  denominations  can't  quarrel?  Why,  seven 
or  eight,  or  a  dozen,  or  fifteen  hundred  years  ago  (they 
haven't  the  register  of  St.  Peter's  up  to  that  remote  period. 
I  dare  say  it  was  burned  in  the  fire  of  London) — a  dozen 
hundred  years  ago,  when  there  was  some  life  in  the  town, 
St.  Lucius  was  stoned  here  on  account  of  theological  dif- 
ferences, after  founding  our  church  in  Cornhill. 

There  was  a  sweet  pretty  river  walk  we  used  to  take 
in  the  evening  and  mark  the  mountains  round  glooming 
with  a  deeper  purple;  the  shades  creeping  up  the  golden 
walls;  the  river  brawling,  the  cattle  calling,  the  maids 
and  chatterboxes  round  the  fountains  babbling  and  bawl- 
ing; and  several  times  in  the  course  of  our  sober  walks 
we  overtook  a  lazy  slouching  boy,  or  hobbledehoy,  with  a 
rusty  coat,  and  trousers  not  too  long,  and  big  feet  trailing 


74  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

lazily  one  after  the  other,  and  large  lazy  hands  dawdling 
from  out  the  tight  sleeves,  and  in  the  lazy  hands  a  little 
book,  which  my  lad  held  up  to  his  face,  and  which  I  dare 
say  so  charmed  and  ravished  him,  that  he  was  blind  to  the 
beautiful  sights  around  him;  unmindful,  I  would  venture 
to  lay  any  wager,  of  the  lessons  he  had  to  learn  for  to- 
morrow; forgetful  of  mother  waiting  supper,  and  father 
preparing  a  scolding; — absorbed  utterly  and  entirely  in 
his  book. 

What  was  it  that  so  fascinated  the  young  student,  as 
he  stood  by  the  river  shore?  Not  the  Pons  Asinorum.* 
What  book  so  delighted  him,  and  blinded  him  to  all  the 
rest  of  the  world,  so  that  he  did  not  care  to  see  the  apple- 
woman  with  her  fruit,  or  (more  tempting  still  to  sons  of 
Eve)  the  pretty  girls  with  then*  apple-cheeks,  who  laughed 
and  prattled  round  the  fountain!  What  was  the  book? 
Do  you  suppose  it  was  Livy,  or  the  Greek  grammar? 
No;  it  was  a  NOVEL  that  you  were  reading,  you  lazy,  not 
very  clean,  good-for-nothing,  sensible  boy!  It  was 
D'Artagnan  locking  up  General  Monk  in  a  box,  or  almost 
succeeding  in  keeping  Charles  the  First's  head  on.  It  was 
the  prisoner  of  the  Chateau  d'lf  cutting  himself  out  of 
the  sack  fifty  feet  under  water  (I  mention  the  novels  I 
like  best  myself — novels  without  love  or  talking,  or  any 
of  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but  containing  plenty  of  fight- 
ing, escaping,  robbery,  and  rescuing) — cutting  himself 
out  of  the  sack,  and  swimming  to  the  island  of  Monte 
Cristo.  O  Dumas!  O  thou  brave,  kind,  gallant  old 
Alexandre !  I  hereby  offer  thee  homage,  and  give  thee 
thanks  for  many  pleasant  hours.  I  have  read  thee 
(being  sick  in  bed)  for  thirteen  hours  of  a  happy  day, 

*  Pons  Asinorum,  literally  "bridge  of  asses,"  an  old  name  for  the 
proposition  in  geometry  which  sets  forth  that  if  a  triangle  has  two 
sides  of  equal  length  the  angles  opposite  those  sides  are  also  equal. 
This  is  the  first  difficult  proposition  in  geometry,  hence  its  name. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY       75 

and  had  the  ladies  of  the  house  fighting  for  the  volumes. 
Be  assured  that  lazy  boy  was  reading  Dumas  (or  I  will 
go  so  far  as  to  let  the  reader  here  pronounce  the  eulogium, 
or  insert  the  name  of  his  favorite  author);  and  as  for  the 
anger,  or  it  may  be,  the  reverberations  of  his  schoolmaster, 
or  the  remonstrances  of  his  father,  or  the  tender  plead- 
ings of  his  mother  that  he  should  not  let  the  supper  grow 
cold — I  don't  believe  the  scapegrace  cared  one  fig.  No ! 
figs  are  sweet,  but  fictions  are  sweeter. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  score  of  white-bearded,  white- 
robed  warriors,  or  grave  seniors  of  the  city,  seated  at 
the  gate  of  Jaffa  or  Beyrout,  and  listening  to  the  story- 
teller reciting  his  marvels  out  of  Antar  or  the  Arabian 
Nights  f  I  was  once  present  when  a  young  gentleman  at 
the  table  put  a  tart  away  from  him,  and  said  to  his  neigh- 
bor, the  Younger  Son  (with  rather  a  fatuous  air):  "I 
never  eat  sweets." 

"Not  eat  sweets!  and  do  you  know  why?"  says  T. 

"Because  I  am  past  that  kind  of  thing,"  says  the  young 
gentleman. 

"Because  you  are  a  glutton  and  a  sot !"  cries  the  Elder 
(and  Juvenis  winces  a  little).  "All  people  who  have 
natural,  healthy  appetites,  love  sweets;  all  children,  all 
women,  all  Eastern  people,  whose  tastes  are  not  corrupted 
by  gluttony  and  strong  drink."  And  a  plateful  of  rasp- 
berries and  cream  disappeared  before  the  philosopher. 

You  take  the  allegory?  Novels  are  sweets.  All  people 
with  healthy  literary  appetites  love  them — almost  all 
women; — a  vast  number  of  clever,  hardheaded  men. 
Why,  one  of  the  most  learned  physicians  in  England  said 
to  me  only  yesterday,  "I  have  just  read  So-and-So  for 
the  second  time"  (naming  one  of  Jones's  exquisite  fic- 
tions). Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  mathematicians,  are 
notorious  novel-readers;  as  well  as  young  boys  and  sweet 
girls,  and  their  kind  tender  mothers.  Who  has  not  read 


76  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

about  Eldon,  and  how  he  cried  over  novels  every  night 
when  he  was  not  at  whist? 

As  for  that  lazy  naughty  boy  at  Chur,  I  doubt  whether 
he  will  like  novels  when  he  is  thirty  years  of  age.  He 
is  taking  too  great  a  glut  of  them  now.  He  is  eating  jelly 
until  he  will  be  sick.  He  will  know  most  plots  by  the 
time  he  is  twenty,  so  that  he  will  never  be  surprised  when 
the  Stranger  turns  out  to  be  the  rightful  earl, — when  the 
old  Waterman,  throwing  off  his  beggarly  gabardine,  shows 
his  stars  and  the  collars  of  his  various  orders,  and  clasp- 
ing Antonia  to  his  bosom,  proves  himself  to  be  the  prince, 
her  long-lost  father.  He  will  recognize  the  novelist's 
same  characters,  though  they  appear  in  red-heeled  pumps 
and  ailes-de-pigeon,  or  the  garb  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
He  will  get  weary  of  sweets,  as  boys  of  private  schools 
grow  (or  used  to  grow,  for  I  have  done  growing  some  little 
time  myself,  and  the  practice  may  have  ended  too) — 
as  private  schoolboys  used  to  grow  tired  of  the  pudding 
before  their  mutton  at  dinner. 

And  pray  what  is  the  moral  of  this  apologue?  The 
moral  I  take  to  be  this:  the  appetite  for  novels  extend- 
ing to  the  end  of  the  world;  far  away  in  the  frozen  deep, 
the  sailors  reading  them  to  one  another  during  the  end- 
less night; — far  away  under  the  Syrian  stars,  the  solemn 
sheiks  and  elders  hearkening  to  the  poet  as  he  recites  his 
tales;  far  away  in  the  Indian  camps,  where  the  soldiers 

listen  to 's  tales,  or 's,  after  the  hot  day's  march; 

far  away  in  little  Chur  yonder  where  the  lazy  boy  pores 
over  the  fond  volume,  and  drinks  it  in  with  all  his  eyes : — 
the  demand  being  what  we  know  it  is,  the  merchant  must 
supply  it,  as  he  will  supply  saddles  and  pale  ale  for  Bom- 
bay or  Calcutta. 

But  as  surely  as  the  cadet  drinks  too  much  pale  ale, 
it  will  disagree  with  him;  and  so  surely,  dear  youth,  will 
too  much  novels  cloy  on  thee.  I  wonder,  do  novel- 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY       77 

writers  themselves  read  many  novels?  If  you  go  into 
Gunter's  you  don't  see  those  charming  young  ladies  (to 
whom  I  present  my  most  respectful  compliments)  eating 
tarts  and  ices,  but  at  the  proper  eventide  they  have  good 
plain  wholesome  tea  and  bread  and  butter.  Can  any- 
body tell  me  does  the  author  of  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities 
read  novels  ?  does  the  author  of  the  Tower  of  London  de- 
vour romances?  does  the  dashing  Harry  Lorrequer  de- 
light in  Plain  or  Ringlets  or  Spunge's  Sporting  Tourf 
Does  the  veteran,  from  whose  flowing  pen  we  had  the 
books  which  delighted  our  young  days,  Darnley,  and 
Richelieu,  and  Delorme*  relish  the  works  of  Alexandre 
the  Great,  and  thrill  over  the  Three  Musqueteersf  Does 
the  accomplished  author  of  The  Caxtons  read  the  other 
tales  in  Blackwoodf  (For  example,  that  ghost-story 
printed  last  August,  and  which  for  my  part,  though  I 
read  it  in  the  public  reading-room  at  the  "  Pavilion  Ho- 
tel" at  Folkestone,  I  protest  frightened  me  so  that  I 
scarce  dared  look  over  my  shoulder.)  Does  Uncle  Tom 
admire  Adam  Bede;  and  does  the  author  of  the  Vicar 
of  Wrexhill  laugh  over  The  Warden  and  the  Three  Clerks  f 
Dear  youth  of  ingenuous  countenance  and  ingenuous 
pudor  !  f  I  make  no  doubt  that  the  eminent  parties  above 
named  all  partake  of  novels  in  moderation — eat  jellies — 
but  mainly  nourish  themselves  upon  wholesome  roast 
and  boiled. 

Here,  dear  youth  aforesaid!  our  Cornhill  Magazine 
owners  strive  to  provide  thee  with  facts  as  well  as  notion; 
and  though  it  does  not  become  them  to  brag  of  their 

*  By  the  way,  what  a  strange  fate  is  that  which  befell  the  veteran 
novelist!  He  was  appointed  her  Majesty's  Consul-General  in 
Venice,  the  only  city  in  Europe  where  the  famous  "Two  Cavaliers" 
cannot  by  any  possibility  be  seen  riding  together.  (Thackeray's 
note.)  The  reference  is  to  G.  P.  R.  James,  whose  romantic  novels 
usually  opened  with  a  description  of  two  cavaliers  riding  togetker. 

t  Pudor  (Lat.),  shyness,  modesty. 


78  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

Ordinary,  at  least  they  invite  thee  to  a  table  where  thou 
shalt  sit  in  good  company.*  That  story  of  the  Fox  f  was 
written  by  one  of  the  gallant  seamen  who  sought  for  poor 
Franklin  under  the  awful  Arctic  Night:  that  account  of 
China  J  is  told  by  the  man  of  all  the  empire  most  likely 
to  know  of  what  he  speaks:  those  pages  regarding  Volun- 
teers §  come  from  an  honored  hand  that  has  borne  the 
sword  in  a  hundred  famous  fields,  and  pointed  the  British 
guns  in  the  greatest  siege  in  the  world. 

Shall  we  point  out  others?  We  are  fellow-travellers, 
and  shall  make  acquaintance  as  the  voyage  proceeds, 
In  the  Atlantic  steamers,  on  the  first  day  out  (and  on 
high  and  holy  days  subsequently),  the  jellies  set  down  on 
table  are  richly  ornamented;  medioque  in  fonte  leporum  || 
rise  the  American  and  British  flags  nobly  emblazoned  in 
tin.  As  the  passengers  remark  this  pleasing  phenomenon, 
the  Captain  no  doubt  improves  the  occasion  by  expressing 
a  hope,  to  his  right  and  left,  that  the  flag  of  Mr.  Bull 
and  his  younger  Brother  may  always  float  side  by  side 
in  friendly  emulation.  Novels  having  been  previously 
compared  to  jellies — here  are  two  (one  perhaps  not  en- 
tirely saccharine,  and  flavored  with  an  amari  aliquid^ 
very  distasteful  to  some  palates) — two  novels**  under  two 
flags,  the  one  that  ancient  ensign  which  has  hung  before 

*  This  essay  appeared  in  the  first  issue  of  the  ComhUl  Magazine, 
of  which  Thackeray  was  editor.  In  the  following  sentences  he  men- 
tions the  chief  articles  in  that  number  of  the  magazine. 

t  The  Search  for  Sir  John  Franklin.  (From  the  Private  Journal 
of  an  Officer  of  the  Fox.) 

J  The  Chinese  and  the  Outer  Barbarians.     By  Sir  John  Bowring. 

$  Our  Volunteers.     By  Sir  John  Burgoyne. 

li  In  the  midst  of  this  abundance  of  attractive  things. 

1T  Amari  aliquid,  something  bitter,  referring  to  the  occasional 
satire  in  Thackeray's  novels. 

'*  In  this  issue  of  the  Cornhill  appeared  the  opening  chapters  of 
Thackeray's  Lovel  the  Widower  and  of  Anthony  Trollope's  Framley 
Parsonage. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY       79 

the  well-known  booth  of  Vanity  Fair  ;  the  other  that  fresh 
and  handsome  standard  which  has  lately  been  hoisted 
on  Barchester  Towers.  Pray,  sir,  or  madam,  to  which 
dish  will  you  be  helped? 

So  have  I  seen  my  friends  Captain  Lang  and  Captain 
Comstock  press  their  guests  to  partake  of  the  fare  on 
that  memorable  "First  day  out,"  when  there  is  no  man, 
I  think,  who  sits  down  but  asks  a  blessing  on  his  voyage, 
and  the  good  ship  dips  over  the  bar,  and  bounds  away 
into  the  blue  watar. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

A  COLLEGE  MAGAZINE 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850-1894),  one  of  the  best- 
known  English  novelists,  was  born  in  Edinburgh.  His 
father  was  a  builder  of  lighthouses  and  wished  his  son 
to  follow  his  profession,  but  the  boy's  health  forbade 
this.  He  attended  Edinburgh  University,  where  he  was 
not  a  very  diligent  student  but  a  tremendous  reader.  He 
began  the  study  of  law,  although  his  heart  was  not  in  it: 
as  he  tells  us  in  this  essay,  he  desired  of  all  things  to  be- 
come a  writer.  In  this  he  was  handicapped  by  his  poor 
health;  an  inherited  tendency  to  consumption  made  him 
an  invalid  practically  all  his  life.  In  search  of  health  he 
went  to  the  south  of  France,  to  Switzerland,  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  finally  to  the  South  Sea  islands,  where  he  died 
in  1894. 

The  beginning  of  his  literary  work  is  told  in  this  essay. 
He  made  a  canoe  trip  through  Holland  and  Belgium, 
and  described  it  in  An  Inland  Voyage  ;  a  walking  tour  in 
France  gave  material  for  Travels  with  a  Donkey.  Then 
followed  two  volumes  of  essays,  Virginibus  Puerisque 
(To  Girls  and  Boys),  and  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and 
Books.  His  first  novel,  Treasure  Island,  published  in 
1883,  made  him  famous.  It  has  taken  its  place  beside 
Robinson  Crusoe  as  one  of  the  best  boys'  books  ever  written. 
Other  novels  of  his  are  Kidnapped,  David  Balfour,  The 
Master  of  Ballantrae,  and  The  Weir  of  Hermiston.  He 
wrote  a  number  of  notable  short  stories,  of  which  the 
best  known  is  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde ;  also  a  volume  of 
poems,  A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses. 

In  his  essays  Stevenson  shows  himself  one  of  the  great 
masters  of  style.  Clear,  flexible,  musical,  it  is  a  perfect 
medium  for  conveying  his  thought.  How  he  acquired 
this  style  is  told  in  the  paper  A  College  Magazine. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

A  COLLEGE  MAGAZINE 

(From  Memories  and  Portraits) 
I 

All  through  my  boyhood  and  youth,  I  was  known  and 
pointed  out  for  the  pattern  of  an  idler;  and  yet  I  was 
always  busy  on  my  own  private  end,  which  was  to  learn 
to  write.  I  kept  always  two  books  in  my  pocket,  one  to 
read,  one  to  write  in.  As  I  walked,  my  mind  was  busy 
fitting  what  I  saw  with  appropriate  words;  when  I  sat 
by  the  roadside,  I  would  either  read,  or  a  pencil  and  a 
penny  version-book  would  be  in  my  hand,  to  note  down 
the  features  of  the  scene  or  commemorate  some  halting 
stanzas.  Thus  I  lived  with  words.  And  what  I  thus 
wrote  was  for  no  ulterior  use,  it  was  written  consciously 
for  practice.  It  was  not  so  much  that  I  wished  to  be  an 
author  (though  I  wished  that  too)  as  that  I  had  vowed 
that  I  would  learn  to  write.  That  was  a  proficiency 
that  tempted  me;  and  I  practised  to  acquire  it,  as  men 
learn  to  whittle,  in  a  wager  with  myself.  Description 
was  the  principal  field  of  my  exercise;  for  to  any  one 
with  senses  there  is  always  something  worth  describing, 
and  town  and  country  are  but  one  continuous  subject. 
But  I  worked  in  other  ways  also;  often  accompanied 
my  walks  with  dramatic  dialogues,  in  which  I  played 
many  parts;  and  often  exercise^  myself  in  writing  down 
ions  from  memory./ 

This  was  all  excellent,  no  doubt;  so  were  the  diaries 
I  sometimes  tried  to  keep,  but  always  and  very  speedily 

83 


84  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

discarded,  finding  them  a  school  of  posturing  and  melan- 
choly self-deception.  And  yet  this  was  not  the  most 
efficient  part  of  my  training.  Good  though  it  was,  it 
only  taught  me  (so  far  as  I  have  learned  them  at  all) 
the  lower  and  less  intellectual  elements  of  the  art,  the 
choice  of  the  essential  note  and  the  right  word:  things 
that  to  a  happier  constitution  had  perhaps  come  by  na- 
ture. And  regarded  as  training,  it  had  one  grave  de- 
fect; for  it  set  me  no  standard  of  achievement.  So  that 
there  was  perhaps  more  profit,  as  there  was  certainly 
more  effort,  in  my  secret  labors  at  home.  Whenever  I 
read  a  book  or  a  passage  that  particularly  pleased  me, 
in  which  a  thing  was  said  or  an  effect  rendered  with 
propriety,  in  which  there  was  either  some  conspicuous 
force  or  some  happy  distinction  in  the  style,  I  must  sit 
down  at  once  and  set  myself  to  ape  that  quality.  I  was 
unsuccessful,  and  I  knew  it;  and  tried  again,  and  was 
again  unsuccessful  and  always  unsuccessful;  but  at  least 
in  these  vain  bouts,  I  got  some  practice  in  rhythm,  in 
harmony,  in  construction,  and  in  the  co-ordination  of 
parts.  I  have  thus  played  the  sedulous  ape  to  Hazlitt, 
to  Lamb,  to  Wordsworth,  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  to 
Defoe,  to  Hawthorne,  to  Montaigne,  to  Baudelaire,  and 
to  Obermann.  I  remember  one  of  these  monkey  tricks, 
which  was  called  The  Vanity  of  Morals :  it  was  to  have 
had  a  second  part,  The  Vanity  of  Knowledge;  and  as  I 
had  neither  morality  nor  scholarship,  the  names  wero 
apt;  but  the  second  part  was  never  attempted,  and  the 
first  part  was  written  (which  is  my  reason  for  recalling 
it,  ghostlike,  from  its  ashes)  no  less  than  three  times: 
first  in  the  manner  of  Hazlitt,  second  in  the  manner  of 
Ruskin,  who  had  cast  on  me  a  passing  spell,  and  third, 
in  a  laborious  pasticcio  *  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  So  with 

*  Pasticcio,  a  term  used  in  painting  to  denote  a  picture  painted  in 
direct  imitation  of  the  style  of  another  artist. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  85 

my  other  works:  Cain,  an  epic,  was  (save  the  mark!) 
an  imitation  of  SordeUo;  Robin  Hood,  a  tale  in  verse, 
took  an  eclectic  middle  course  among  the  fields  of  Keats, 
Chaucer,  and  Morris;  in  Monmouth,  a  tragedy,  I  reclined 
on  the  bosom  of  Mr.  Swinburne;  in  my  innumerable 
gouty-footed  lyrics,  I  followed  many  masters;  in  the 
first  draft  of  The  King's  Pardon,  a  tragedy,  I  was  on  the 
trail  of  no  lesser  man  than  John  Webster;  in  the  second 
draft  of  the  same  piece,  with  staggering  versatility,  I 
had  shifted  my  allegiance  to  Congreve,  and  of  course 
conceived  my  fable  in  a  less  serious  vein — for  it  was  not 
Congreve's  verse,  it  was  his  exquisite  prose,  that  I  ad- 
mired and  sought  to  copy.  Even  at  the  age  of  thirteen 
I  had  tried  to  do  justice  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  famous 
city  of  Peebles  in  the  style  of  the  Book  of  Snobs.  So  I 
might  go  on  forever,  through  all  my  abortive  novels,  and 
down  to  my  later  plays,  of  which  I  think  more  tenderly, 
for  they  were  not  only  conceived  at  first  under  the  brac- 
ing influence  of  old  Dumas,  but  have  met  with  resurrec- 
tions: one,  strangely  bettered  by  another  hand,  came  on 
the  stage  itself  and  was  played  by  bodily  actors;  the  other, 
originally  known  as  Semiramis:  a  Tragedy,  I  have  ob- 
served on  book-stalls  under  the  alias  of  Prince  Otto.  But 
enough  has  been  said  to  show  by  what  arts  of  impersona- 
tion, and  in  what  purely  ventriloquial  efforts  I  first  saw 
my  words  on  paper. 

That,  like  it  or  not,  is  the  way  to  learn  to  write;  whether 
I  have  profited  or  not,  that  is  the  way.  It  was  so  Keats 
learned,  and  there  was  never  a  finer  temperament  for 
literature  than  Keats's;  it  was  so,  if  we  could  trace  it 
out,  that  all  men  have  learned;  and  that  is  why  a  revival 
of  letters  is  always  accompanied  or  heralded  by  a  cast 
back  to  earlier  and  fresher  models.  Perhaps  I  hear  some 
one  cry  out:  But  this  is  not  the  way  to  be  original !  It  is 
not;  nor  is  there  any  way  but  to  be  born  so.  Nor  yet, 


86  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

if  you  are  born  original,  is  there  anything  in  this  training 
that  shall  clip  the  wings  of  your  originality.  There  can 
be  none  more  original  than  Montaigne,  neither  could 
any  be  more  unlike  Cicero;  yet  no  craftsman  can  fail  to 
see  how  much  the  one  must  have  tried  in  his  time  to  imi- 
tate the  other.  Burns  is  the  very  type  of  a  prime  force 
in  letters:  he  was  of  all  men  the  most  imitative.  Shake- 
speare himself,  the  imperial,  proceeds  directly  from  a 
school.  It  is  only  from  a  school  that  we  can  expect  to 
have  good  writers;  it  is  almost  invariably  from  a  school 
that  great  writers,  these  lawless  exceptions,  issue.  Nor 
is  there  anything  here  that  should  astonish  the  consider- 
ate. Before  he  can  tell  what  cadences  he  truly  prefers, 
the  student  should  have  tried  all  that  are  possible;  before 
he  can  choose  and  preserve  a  fitting  key  of  words,  he 
should  long  have  practised  the  literary  scales;  and  it  is 
only  after  years  of  such  gymnastic  that  he  can  sit  down 
at  last,  legions  of  words  swarming  to  his  call,  dozens  of 
turns  of  phrase  simultaneously  bidding  for  his  choice, 
and  he  himself  knowing  what  he  wants  to  do  and  (within 
the  narrow  limit  of  a  man's  ability)  able  to  dojj 

And  it  is  the  great  point  of  these  imitations  ftlaTthere 
still  shines  beyond  the  student's  reach  his  inimitable 
model.  Let  him  try  as  he  please,  he  is  still  sure  of  fail- 
ure; and  it  is  a  very  old  and  a  very  true  saying  that 
failure  is  the  only  highroad  to  success.  I  must  have 
had  some  disposition  to  learn;  for  I  clear-sightedly  con- 
demned my  own  performances.  I  liked  doing  them  in- 
deed; but  when  they  were  done,  I  could  see  they  were 
rubbish.  In  consequence,  I  very  rarely  showed  them 
even  to  my  friends;  and  such  friends  as  I  chose  to  be 
my  confidants  I  must  have  chosen  well,  for  they  had  the 
friendliness  to  be  quite  plain  with  me.  "Padding,"  said 
one.  Another  wrote:  "I  cannot  understand  why  you 
do  lyrics  so  badly."  No  more  could  I !  Thrice  I  put 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  87 

myself  in  the  way  of  a  more  authoritative  rebuff,  by 
sending  a  paper  to  a  magazine.  These  were  returned; 
and  I  was  not  surprised  nor  even  pained.  If  they  had 
not  been  looked  at,  as  (like  all  amateurs)  I  suspected 
was  the  case,  there  was  no  good  in  repeating  the  experi- 
ment; if  they  had  been  looked  at — well,  then  I  had  not 
yet  learned  to  write,  and  I  must  keep  on  learning  and 
living.  Lastly,  I  had  a  piece  of  good  fortune,  which  is 
the  occasion  of  this  paper,  and  by  which  I  was  able  to 
see  my  literature  in  print,  and  to  measure  experimentally 
how  far  I  stood  from  the  favor  of  the  public. 

II 

The  Speculative  Society  is  a  body  of  some  antiquity, 
and  has  counted  among  its  members  Scott,  Brougham, 
Jeffrey,  Homer,  Benjamin  Constant,  Robert  Emmet, 
and  many  a  legal  and  local  celebrity  besides.  By  an 
accident,  variously  explained,  it  has  its  rooms  in  the  very 
buildings  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh:  a  hall,  Turkey- 
carpeted,  hung  with  pictures,  looking,  when  lighted  up 
at  night  with  fire  and  candle,  like  some  goodly  dining- 
room;  a  passage-like  library,  walled  with  books  in  their 
wire  cages;  and  a  corridor  with  a  fireplace,  benches,  a 
table,  many  prints  of  famous  members,  and  a  mural 
tablet  to  the  virtues  of  a  former  secretary.  Here  a  mem- 
ber can  warm  himself  and  loaf  and  read;  here,  in  defiance 
of  Senatus-consults,  he  can  smoke.  The  Senatus  looks 
askance  at  these  privileges;  looks  even  with  a  somewhat 
vinegar  aspect  on  the  whole  society;  which  argues  a  lack 
of  proportion  in  the  learned  mind,  for  the  world,  we  may 
be  sure,  will  prize  far  higher  this  haunt  of  dead  lions  than 
all  the  living  dogs  of  the  professorate. 

I  sat  one  December  morning  in  the  library  of  the  Spec- 
ulative; a  very  humble-minded  youth,  though  it  was  a 


88  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

virtue  I  never  had  much  credit  for;  yet  proud  of  my 
privileges  as  a  member  of  the  Spec.;  proud  of  the  pipe 
I  was  smoking  in  the  teeth  of  the  Senatus;  and  in  par- 
ticular, proud  of  being  in  the  next  room  to  three  very 
distinguished  students,  who  were  then  conversing  beside 
the  corridor  fire.  One  of  these  has  now  his  name  on 
the  back  of  several  volumes,  and  his  voice,  I  learn,  is 
influential  in  the  law  courts.  Of  the  death  of  the  sec- 
ond, you  have  just  been  reading  what  I  had  to  say.*  And 
the  third  also  has  escaped  out  of  that  battle  of  life  in 
which  he  fought  so  hard,  it  may  be  so  unwisely.  They 
were  all  three,  as  I  have  said,  notable  students;  but  this 
was  the  most  conspicuous.  Wealthy,  handsome,  ambi- 
tious, adventurous,  diplomatic,  a  reader  of  Balzac,  and 
of  all  men  that  I  have  known,  the  most  like  to  one  of 
Balzac's  characters,  he  led  a  life,  and  was  attended  by 
an  ill  fortune,  that  could  be  properly  set  forth  only  in 
the  Comedie  Humaine.  He  had  then  his  eye  on  Parlia- 
ment; and  soon  after  the  tune  of  which  I  write,  he  made  a 
showy  speech  at  a  political  dinner,  was  cried  up  to  heaven 
next  day  in  the  Courant,  and  the  day  after  was  dashed 
lower  than  earth  with  a  charge  of  plagiarism  in  the  Scots- 
man. Report  would  have  it  (I  dare  say,  very  wrongly) 
that  he  was  betrayed  by  one  in  whom  he  particularly 
trusted,  and  that  the  author  of  the  charge  had  learned 
its  truth  from  his  own  lips.  Thus,  at  least,  he  was  up 
one  day  on  a  pinnacle,  admired  and  envied  by  all;  and  the 
next,  though  still  but  a  boy,  he  was  publicly  disgraced. 
The  blow  would  have  broken  a  less  finely  tempered  spirit; 
and  even  him  I  suppose  it  rendered  reckless;  for  he  took 
flight  to  London,  and  there,  in  a  fast  club,  disposed  of 
the  bulk  of  his  considerable  patrimony  in  the  space  of 
one  winter.  For  years  thereafter  he  lived  I  know  not 

*The  reference  is  to  the  essay  "Old  Mortality,"  which  precedes 
this  essay  in  the  volume  Memories  and  Portraits. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  89 

how;  alwajTs  well  dressed,  always  in  good  hotels  and  good 
society,  always  with  empty  pockets.  The  charm  of  his 
manner  may  have  stood  him  in  good  stead;  but  though 
my  own  manners  are  very  agreeable,  I  have  never  found 
in  them  a  source  of  livelihood;  and  to  explain  the  miracle 
of  his  continued  existence,  I  must  fall  back  upon  the 
theory  of  the  philosopher,  that  in  his  case,  as  in  all  of  the 
same  kind,  "there  was  a  suffering  relative  in  the  back- 
ground." From  this  genteel  eclipse  he  reappeared  upon 
the  scene,  and  presently  sought  me  out  in  the  character 
of  a  generous  editor.  It  is  in  this  part  that  I  best  remem- 
ber him;  tall,  slender,  with  a  not  ungraceful  stoop;  look- 
ing quite  like  a  refined  gentleman,  and  quite  like  an  ur- 
bane adventurer;  smiling  with  an  engaging  ambiguity; 
cocking  at  you  one  peaked  eyebrow  with  a  great  appear- 
ance of  finesse;  speaking  low  and  sweet  and  thick,  with 
a  touch  of  burr;  telling  strange  tales  with  singular  de- 
liberation and,  to  a  patient  listener,  excellent  effect. 
After  all  these  ups  and  downs,  he  seemed  still,  like  the 
rich  student  that  he  was  of  yore,  to  breathe  of  money; 
seemed  still  perfectly  sure  of  himself  and  certain  of  his 
end.  Yet  he  was  then  upon  the  brink  of  his  last  over- 
throw. He  had  set  himself  to  found  the  strangest  thing 
in  our  society:  one  of  those  periodical  sheets  from  which 
men  suppose  themselves  to  learn  opinions;  in  which 
young  gentlemen  from  the  universities  are  encouraged, 
at  so  much  a  line,  to  garble  facts,  insult  foreign  nations, 
and  calumniate  private  individuals;  and  which  are  now 
the  source  of  glory,  so  that  if  a  man's  name  be  often  enough 
printed  there,  he  becomes  a  kind  of  demigod;  and  people 
will  pardon  him  when  he  talks  back  and  forth,  as  they 
do  for  Mr.  Gladstone;  and  crowd  him  to  suffocation  on 
railway  platforms,  as  they  did  the  other  day  to  General 
Boulanger;  and  buy  his  literary  works,  as  I  hope  you 
have  just  done  for  me.  Our  fathers,  when  they  were 


$0  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

upon  some  great  enterprise,  would  sacrifice  a  life;  build- 
ing, it  may  be,  a  favorite  slave  into  the  foundations  of 
their  palace.  It  was  with  his  own  life  that  my  companion 
disarmed  the  envy  of  the  gods.  He  fought  his  paper 
single-handed;  trusting  no  one,  for  he  was  something  of 
a  cynic;  up  early  and  down  late,  for  he  was  nothing  of  a 
sluggard;  daily  ear-wigging  influential  men,  for  he  was 
a  master  of  ingratiation.  In  that  slender  and  silken 
fellow  there  must  have  been  a  rare  vein  of  courage,  that 
he  should  thus  have  died  at  his  employment;  and  doubt- 
less ambition  spoke  loudly  in  his  ear,  and  doubtless  love 
also,  for  it  seems  there  was  a  marriage  in  his  view  had  he 
succeeded.  But  he  died,  and  his  paper  died  after  him; 
and  of  all  this  grace,  and  tact,  and  courage,  it  must  seem 
to  our  blind  eyes  as  if  there  had  come  literally  nothing. 

These  three  students  sat,  as  I  was  saying,  in  the  corri- 
dor, under  the  mural  tablet  that  records  the  virtues  of 
Macbean,  the  former  secretary.  We  would  often  smile 
at  that  ineloquent  memorial,  and  thought  it  a  poor  thing 
to  come  into  the  world  at  all  and  leave  no  more  behind 
one  than  Macbean.  And  yet  of  these  three,  two  are  gone 
and  have  left  less;  and  this  book,  perhaps,  when  it  is 
old  and  foxy,  and  some  one  picks  it  up  in  a  corner  of  a 
book-shop,  and  glances  through  it,  smiling  at  the  old, 
graceless  turns  of  speech,  and  perhaps  for  the  love  of 
Alma  Mater  (which  may  be  still  extant  and  flourishing) 
buys  it,  not  without  haggling,  for  some  pence — this  book 
may  alone  preserve  a  memory  of  James  Walter  Ferrier 
and  Robert  Glasgow  Brown. 

Their  thoughts  ran  very  differently  on  that  December 
morning;  they  were  all  on  fire  with  ambition;  and  when 
they  had  called  me  in  to  them,  and  made  me  a  sharer  in 
their  design,  I  too  became  drunken  with  pride  and  hope. 
We  were  to  found  a  University  magazine.  A  pair  of 
IHtle,  active  brothers — Livingstone  by  name,  great 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  91 

skippers  on  the  foot,  great  rubbers  of  the  hands,  who  kept 
a  book-shop  over  against  the  University  building — had 
been  debauched  to  play  the  part  of  publishers.  We  four 
were  to  be  conjunct  editors  and,  what  was  the  main 
point  of  the  concern,  to  print  our  own  works;  while,  by 
every  rule  of  arithmetic — that  flatterer  of  credulity — 
the  adventure  must  succeed  and  bring  great  profit. 
Well,  well:  it  was  a  bright  vision.  I  went  home  that 
morning  walking  upon  air.  To  have  been  chosen  by  these 
three  distinguished  students  was  to  me  the  most  un- 
speakable advance;  it  was  my  first  draught  of  considera- 
tion; it  reconciled  me  to  myself  and  to  my  fellow  men; 
and  as  I  steered  round  the  railings  at  the  Tron,  I  could 
not  withhold  my  lips  from  smiling  publicly.  Yet,  in  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  I  knew  that  magazine  would  be  a 
grim  fiasco;  I  knew  it  would  not  be  worth  reading;  I 
knew,  even  if  it  were,  that  nobody  would  read  it;  and 
I  kept  wondering  how  I  should  be  able,  upon  my  compact 
income  of  twelve  pounds  per  annum,  payable  monthly, 
to  meet  my  share  in  the  expense.  It  was  a  comfortable 
thought  to  me  that  I  had  a  father. 

The  magazine  appeared,  in  a  yellow  cover  which  was 
the  best  part  of  it,  for  at  least  it  was  unassuming;  it  ran 
four  months  in  undisturbed  obscurity,  and  died  without 
a  gasp.  The  first  number  was  edited  by  all  four  of  us 
with  prodigious  bustle;  the  second  fell  principally  into 
the  hands  of  Ferrier  and  me;  the  third  I  edited  alone; 
and  it  has  long  been  a  solemn  question  who  it  was  that 
edited  the  fourth.  It  would  perhaps  be  still  more  diffi- 
cult to  say  who  read  it.  Poor  yellow  sheet,  that  looked 
so  hopefully  in  the  Livingstones'  window !  Poor,  harm- 
less paper,  that  might  have  gone  to  print  a  Shakespeare 
on,  and  was  instead  so  clumsily  defaced  with  nonsense! 
And,  shall  I  say,  Poor  Editors?  I  cannot  pity  myself, 
to  whom  it  was  all  pure  gain.  It  was  no  news  to  me,  but 


92  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

only  the  wholesome  confirmation  of  my  judgment,  when 
the  magazine  struggled  into  half-birth,  and  instantly 
sickened  and  subsided  into  night.  I  had  sent  a  copy 
to  the  lady  with  whom  my  heart  was  at  that  time  some- 
what engaged,  and  who  did  all  that  in  her  lay  to  break 
it;  and  she,  with  some  tact,  passed  over  the  gift  and  my 
cherished  contributions  in  silence.  I  will  not  say  that  I 
was  pleased  at  this;  but  I  will  tell  her  now,  if  by  any 
chance  she  takes  up  the  work  of  her  former  servant,  that 
I  thought  the  better  of  her  taste.  I  cleared  the  decks 
after  this  lost  engagement;  had  the  necessary  interview 
with  my  father,  which  passed  off  not  amiss;  paid  over 
my  share  of  the  expense  to  the  two  little,  active  brothers, 
who  rubbed  their  hands  as  much,  but  methought  skipped 
rather  less  than  formerly,  having  perhaps,  these  two 
also,  embarked  upon  the  enterprise  with  some  graceful 
illusions;  and  then,  reviewing  the  whole  episode,  I  told 
myself  that  the  time  was  not  yet  ripe,  nor  the  man  ready; 
and  to  work  I  went  again  with  my  penny  version-books, 
having  fallen  back  in  one  day  from  the  printed  author  to 
the  manuscript  student. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

MY  LAST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (1809-1894)  was  a  member  of 
the  famous  Cambridge  group  of  writers,  including  also 
Longfellow  and  Lowell.  He  was  born  in  Cambridge, 
Mass.,  and  educated  at  Phillips  Andover  Academy  and 
Harvard  College,  where  Wendell  Phillips  the  orator  and 
John  Lothrop  Motley  the  historian  were  his  classmates. 
He  wrote  verse  for  the  college  magazine,  and  an  early 
poem,  "Old  Ironsides,"  was  copied  in  newspapers  all  over 
the  country.  He  studied  medicine,  and  practised  in  Bos- 
ton, besides  being  a  professor  in  the  Harvard  Medical 
School.  In  the  moments  that  he  could  spare  from  his  pro- 
fession he  wrote  several  books  that  are  a  permanent  addi- 
tion to  American  literature.  When  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
was  projected,  it  was  Holmes  who  suggested  its  name,  and 
in  the  first  number  appeared  the  opening  pages  of  The 
Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table.  The  novelty  of  the  form, 
a  sort  of  conversational  essay,  the  sparkling  wit,  the  keen 
comments  on  life,  the  apt  turns  of  phrase, — all  these  made 
the  Autocrat  a  joy  to  his  readers.  Two  later  volumes, 
The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast-Table  and  The  Poet  at  the 
Breakfast-Table  continued  the  same  vein.  Holmes's  other 
works  include  a  novel,  Elsie  Venner;  a  volume  of  poems, 
and  biographies  of  Emerson  and  Motley.  The  selection 
here  given  is  from  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table. 
While  a  thread  of  narrative  runs  through  it,  nearly  all 
of  the  article  is  in  the  essay  vein;  the  story  is  merely  an 
opportunity  for  the  writer  to  express  his  opinions  on  a 
variety  of  subjects. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

MY  LAST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS  * 

(From  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Tabk) 

(A  Parenthesis) 

I  can't  say  just  how  many  walks  she  and  I  had  taken 
together  before  this  one.  I  found  the  effect  of  going  out 
every  morning  was  decidedly  favorable  on  her  health. 
Two  pleasing  dimples,  the  places  for  which  were  just 
marked  when  she  came,  played,  shadowy,  in  her  freshen- 
ing cheeks  when  she  smiled  and  nodded  good  morning 
to  me  from  the  schoolhouse  steps. 

I  am  afraid  I  did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking.  At 
any  rate,  if  I  should  try  to  report  all  that  I  said  during 
the  first  half-dozen  walks  we  took  together,  I  fear  that 
I  might  receive  a  gentle  hint  from  my  friends  the  pub- 
lishers that  a  separate  volume,  at  my  own  risk  and  ex- 
pense, would  be  the  proper  method  of  bringing  them  be- 
fore the  public. 

— I  would  have  a  woman  as  true  as  Death.  At  the 
first  real  lie  which  works  from  the  heart  outward,  she 
should  be  tenderly  chloroformed  into  a  better  world, 
where  she  can  have  an  angel  for  a  governess,  and  feed 
on  strange  fruits  which  will  make  her  all  over  again, 
even  to  her  bones  and  marrow. — Whether  gifted  with 
the  accident  of  beauty  or  not,  she  should  have  been 
moulded  in  the  rose-red  clay  of  Love,  before  the  breath 
of  life  made  a  moving  mortal  of  her.  Love-capaoity  is 

*  Used  by  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  Company,  the  author- 
ized publishers  of  Holmes'a  works. 

95 


96  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

a  congenital  endowment;  and  I  think,  after  a  while,  one 
gets  to  know  the  warm-hued  natures  it  belongs  to  from 
the  pretty  pipe-clay  counterfeits  of  them. — Proud  she 
may  be,  in  the  sense  of  respecting  herself;  but  pride,  in 
the  sense  of  contemning  others  less  gifted  than  herself, 
deserves  the  two  lowest  circles  of  a  vulgar  woman's 
Inferno,  where  the  punishments  are  Smallpox  and  Bank- 
ruptcy.— She  who  nips  off  the  end  of  a  brittle  courtesy, 
as  one  breaks  the  tip  of  an  icicle,  to  bestow  upon  those 
whom  she  ought  cordially  and  kindly  to  recognize,  pro- 
claims the  fact  that  she  comes  not  merely  of  low  blood, 
but  of  bad  blood.  Consciousness  of  unquestioned  posi- 
tion makes  people  gracious  in  proper  measure  to  all; 
but  if  a  woman  put  on  airs  with  her  real  equals,  she  had 
something  about  herself  or  her  family  she  is  ashamed  of, 
or  ought  to  be.  Middle,  and  more  than  middle-aged 
people,  who  know  family  histories,  generally  see  through 
it.  An  official  of  standing  was  rude  to  me  once.  Oh, 
that  is  the  maternal  grandfather, — said  a  wise  old  friend 
to  me, — he  was  a  boor. — Better  too  few  words,  from  the 
woman  we  love,  than  too  many:  while  she  is  silent,  Na- 
ture is  working  for  her;  while  she  talks,  she  is  working 
for  herself. — Love  is  sparingly  soluble  in  the  words  of 
men;  therefore  they  speak  much  of  it;  but  one  syllable 
of  woman's  speech  can  dissolve  more  of  it  than  a  man's 
heart  can  hold. 

— Whether  I  said  any  or  all  of  these  things  to  the 
schoolmistress,  or  not, — whether  I  stole  them  out  of 
Lord  Bacon, — whether  I  cribbed  them  from  Balzac, 
— whether  I  dipped  them  from  the  ocean  of  Tupperian  * 
wisdom, — or  whether  I  have  just  found  them  in  my  head, 
laid  there  by  that  solemn  fowl,  Experience  (who,  accord- 
ing to  my  observation,  cackles  oftener  than  she  drops 

*  Tupperian,  a  reference  to  Martin  F.  Tupper,  author  of  Proverbial 
Philosophy,  a  book  of  precepts  and  advice  in  verse. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  97 

real  live  eggs),  I  cannot  say.  Wise  men  have  said  more 
foolish  things, — and  foolish  men,  I  don't  doubt,  have 
said  as  wise  things.  Anyhow,  the  schoolmistress  and  I 
had  pleasant  walks  and  long  talks,  all  of  which  I  do  not 
feel  bound  to  report. 

—You  are  a  stranger  to  me,  Ma'am. — I  don't  doubt 
you  would  like  to  know  all  I  said  to  the  schoolmistress. — 
I  sha'n't  do  it; — I  had  rather  get  the  publishers  to  return 
the  money  you  have  invested  in  these  pages.  Besides, 
I  have  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  it.  I  shall  tell  only  what 
I  like  of  what  I  remember. 

— My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search  out  the 
picturesque  spots  which  the  city  affords  a  sight  of,  to 
those  who  have  eyes.  I  know  a  good  many,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  look  at  them  in  company  with  my  young 
friend.  There  were  the  shrubs  and  flowers  in  the  Frank- 
lin-Place front  yards  or  borders:  Commerce  is  just  putting 
his  granite  foot  upon  them.  Then  there  are  certain  small 
seraglio  gardens,  into  which  one  can  get  a  peep  through 
the  crevices  of  high  fences, — one  in  Myrtle  Street,  or  at 
the  back  of  it, — here  and  there  one  at  the  North  and 
South  ends.  Then  the  great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then 
the  stately  horse-chestnuts  in  that  vacant  lot  in  Chambers 
Street,  which  hold  their  outspread  hands  over  your  head 
(as  I  said  in  my  poem  the  other  day),  and  look  as  if  they 
were  whispering,  "May  grace,  mercy,  and  peace  be  with 
you!" — and  the  rest  of  that  benediction.  Nay,  there 
are  certain  patches  of  ground,  which,  having  lain  neg- 
lected for  a  time,  Nature,  who  always  has  her  pockets 
full  of  seeds,  and  holes  in  all  her  pockets,  has  covered 
with  hungry  plebeian  growths,  which  fight  for  life  with 
each  other,  until  some  of  them  get  broad-leaved  and 
succulent,  and  you  have  a  coarse  vegetable  tapestry 
which  Raphael  would  not  have  disdained  to  spread  over 
the  foreground  of  his  masterpiece.  The  Professor  pre- 


98  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

tends  that  he  found  such  a  one  in  Charles  Street,  which, 
in  its  dare-devil  impudence  of  rough-and-tumble  vegeta- 
tion, beat  the  pretty-behaved  flower-beds  of  the  Public 
Garden  as  ignominiously  as  a  group  of  young  tatterde- 
malions playing  pitch-and-toss  beats  a  row  of  Sunday- 
school  boys  with  their  teacher  at  their  head. 

But  then  the  Professor  had  one  of  his  burrows  in  that 
region,  and  puts  everything  in  high  colors  relating  to  it. 
That  is  his  way  about  everything. — I  hold  any  man 
cheap, — he  said, — of  whom  nothing  stronger  can  be 
uttered  than  that  all  his  geese  are  swans. — How  is  that, 
Professor? — said  I; — I  should  have  set  you  down  for  one 
of  that  sort. — Sir, — said  he, — I  am  proud  to  say,  that 
Nature  has  so  far  enriched  me,  that  I  cannot  own  so  much 
as  a  duck  without  seeing  in  it  as  pretty  a  swan  as  ever 
swam  the  basin  in  the  garden  of  Luxembourg.  And  the 
Professor  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes  devoutly,  like 
one  returning  thanks  after  a  dinner  of  many  courses. 

I  don't  know  anything  sweeter  than  this  leaking  in  of 
Nature  through  all  the  cracks  in  the  walls  and  floors  of 
cities.  You  heap  up  a  million  tons  of  hewn  rocks  on  a 
square  mile  or  two  of  earth  which  was  green  once.  The 
trees  look  down  from  the  hillsides  and  ask  each  other, 
as  they  stand  on  tiptoe, — "  What  are  these  people  about?" 
And  the  small  herbs  at  their  feet  look  up  and  whisper 
back, — "We  will  go  and  see."  So  the  small  herbs  pack 
themselves  up  in  the  least  possible  bundles,  and  wait 
until  the  wind  steals  to  them  at  night  and  whispers, — 
"Come  with  me."  Then  they  go  softly  with  it  into  the 
great  city, — one  to  a  cleft  in  the  pavement,  one  to  a  spout 
on  the  roof,  one  to  a  seam  in  the  marbles  over  a  rich 
gentleman's  bones,  and  one  to  the  grave  without  a  stone 
where  nothing  but  a  man  is  buried, — and  there  they 
grow,  looking  down  on  the  generations  of  men  from 
mouldy  roofs,  looking  up  from  between  the  less-trodden 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  99 

pavements,  looking  out  through  iron  cemetery-railings. 
Listen  to  them,  when  there  is  only  a  light  breath  stirring, 
and  you  will  hear  them  saying  to  each  other, — "Wait 
awhile!"  The  words  run  along  the  telegraph  of  those 
narrow  green  lines  that  border  the  roads  leading  from 
the  city,  until  they  reach  the  slope  of  the  hills,  and  the 
trees  repeat  in  low  murmurs  to  each  other, — "Wait 
awhile !"  By  and  by  the  flow  of  life  in  the  streets  ebbs, 
and  the  old  leafy  inhabitants — the  smaller  tribes  always 
in  fronts-saunter  in,  one  by  one,  very  careless  seemingly, 
but  very  tenacious,  until  they  swarm  so  that  the  great 
stones  gape  from  each  other  with  the  crowding  of  their 
roots,  and  the  feldspar  begins  to  be  picked  out  of  the 
granite  to  find  them  food.  At  last  the  trees  take  up  their 
solemn  line  of  march,  and  never  rest  until  they  have  en- 
camped in  the  market-place.  Wait  long  enough  and  you 
will  find  an  old  doting  oak  hugging  a  huge  worn  block  in 
its  yellow  underground  arms;  that  was  the  corner-stone 
of  the  State-House.  Oh,  so  patient  she  is,  this  imper- 
turbable Nature ! 

— Let  us  cry ! — 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  walks  and  talks 
with  the  schoolmistress.  I  did  not  say  that  I  would  not 
tell  you  something  about  them.  Let  me  alone,  and  I 
shall  talk  to  you  more  than  I  ought  to,  probably.  We 
never  tell  our  secrets  to  people  that  pump  for  them. 

Books  we  talked  about,  and  education.  It  was  her 
duty  to  know  something  of  these,  and  of  course  she  did. 
Perhaps  I  was  somewhat  more  learned  than  she,  but  I 
found  that  the  difference  between  her  reading  and  mine 
was  like  that  of  a  man's  and  a  woman's  dusting  a  library. 
The  man  flaps  about  with  a  bunch  of  feathers;  the  woman 
goes  to  work  softly  with  a  cloth.  She  does  not  raise  half 
the  dust,  nor  fill  her  own  eyes  and  mouth  with  it, — but 
she  goes  into  all  the  corners  and  attends  to  the  leaves  as 


100  THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

much  as  to  the  covers. — Books  are  the  negative  pictures 
of  thought,  and  the  more  sensitive  the  mind  that  receives 
their  images,  the  more  nicely  the  finest  lines  are  repro- 
duced. A  woman  (of  the  right  kind),  reading  after  a 
man,  follows  him  as  Ruth  followed  the  reapers  of  Boaz, 
and  her  gleanings  are  often  the  finest  of  the  wheat. 

But  it  was  in  talking  of  Life  that  we  came  most  nearly 
together.  I  thought  I  knew  something  about  that, — 
that  I  could  speak  or  write  about  it  somewhat  to  the 
purpose. 

To  take  up  this  fluid  earthly  being  of  ours  as  a  sponge 
sucks  up  water, — to  be  steeped  and  soaked  in  its  realities 
as  a  hide  fills  its  pores  lying  seven  years  in  a  tan-pit, — to 
have  winnowed  every  wave  of  it  as  a  mill-wheel  works  up 
the  stream  that  runs  through  the  flume  upon  its  float- 
boards, — to  have  curled  up  in  the  keenest  spasms  and 
flattened  out  in  the  laxest  languors  of  this  breathing  sick- 
ness, which  keeps  certain  parcels  of  matter  uneasy  for 
three  or  four  score  years, — to  have  fought  all  the  devils 
and  clasped  all  the  angels  of  its  delirium, — and  then,  just 
at  the  point  when  the  white-hot  passions  have  cooled 
down  to  cherry-red,  plunge  our  experience  into  the  ice- 
cold  stream  of  some  human  language  or  other,  one  might 
think  would  end  in  a  rhapsody  with  something  of  spring 
and  temper  in  it  All  this  I  thought  my  power  and 
province. 

The  schoolmistress  had  tried  life,  too.  Once  in  a  while 
one  meets  with  a  single  soul  greater  than  all  the  living 
pageant  which  passes  before  it.  As  the  pale  astronomer 
sits  in  his  study  with  sunken  eyes  and  thin  fingers,  and 
weighs  Uranus  or  Neptune  as  in  a  balance,  so  there  are 
meek,  slight  women  who  have  weighed  all  which  this 
planetary  life  can  offer,  and  hold  it  like  a  bauble  in  the 
palm  of  their  slender  hands.  This  was  one  of  them. 
Fortune  had  left  her,  sorrow  had  baptized  her;  the  routine 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  101 

of  labor  and  the  loneliness  of  almost  friendless  city  life 
were  before  her.  Yet,  as  I  looked  upon  her  tranquil 
face,  gradually  regaining  a  cheerfulness  which  was  often 
sprightly,  as  she  became  interested  in  the  various  matters 
we  talked  about  and  places  we  visited,  I  saw  that  eye  and 
lip  and  every  shifting  lineament  were  made  for  love, — 
unconscious  of  their  sweet  office  as  yet,  and  meeting  the 
cold  aspect  of  Duty  with  the  natural  graces  which  were 
meant  for  the  reward  of  nothing  less  than  the  Great 
Passion. 

—I  never  addressed  one  word  of  love  to  the  school- 
mistress in  the  course  of  these  pleasant  walks.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  we  talked  of  everything  but  love  on  that  par- 
ticular morning.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  little  more  tim- 
idity and  hesitancy  on  my  part  than  I  have  commonly 
shown  among  our  people  at  the  boarding-house.  In 
fact,  I  considered  myself  the  master  at  the  breakfast- 
table;  but,  somehow,  I  could  not  command  myself  just 
then  so  well  as  usual.  The  truth  is,  I  had  secured  a 
passage  to  Liverpool  in  the  steamer  which  was  to  leave 
at  noon, — with  the  condition,  however,  of  being  released 
in  case  circumstances  occurred  to  detain  me.  The  school- 
mistress knew  nothing  about  all  this,  of  course,  as  yet. 

It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking.  The 
mall,  or  boulevard  of  our  Common,  you  know,  has  various 
branches  leading  from  it  in  different  directions.  One 
of  these  runs  down  from  opposite  Joy  Street  southward 
across  the  whole  length  of  the  Common  to  Boylston  Street. 
We  called  it  the  long  path,  and  were  fond  of  it. 

I  felt  very  weak  indeed  (though  of  a  tolerably  robust 
habit)  as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this  path  on  that 
morning.  I  think  I  tried  to  speak  twice  without  making 
myself  distinctly  audible.  At  last  I  got  out  the  question, 
—Will  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  ?— Certainly,— 
said  the  schoolmistress, — with  much  pleasure. — Think, — 


:10'2  '"-'THE  PERSONAL  ESSAY 

I  said, — before  you  answer:  if  you  take  the  long  path  with 
me  now,  I  shall  interpret  it  that  we  are  to  part  no  more ! — 
The  schoolmistress  stepped  back  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment, as  if  an  arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was  hard 
by,  the  one  you  may  still  see  close  by  the  Gingko-tree. — 
Pray,  sit  down, — I  said. — No,  no,  she  answered,  softly, — 
I  will  walk  the  long  path  with  you ! 

— The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  met  us  walking, 
arm  in  arm,  about  the  middle  of  the  long  path,  and  said, 
very  charmingly, — "Good  morning,  my  dears!" 


THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

THE  SKY 


John  Ruskin  (1819-1900),  eminent  as  author,  art 
critic,  and  social  reformer,  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  English 
merchant.  His  father  was  a  lover  of  pictures,  and  took 
the  boy  to  see  the  great  collections  in  public  and  private 
galleries  in  England.  His  mother  read  to  him  daily  from 
the  Bible,  and  to  this  Ruskin  attributed  the  clearness  and 
beauty  of  his  style.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford.  His 
first  intellectual  interest  was  in  art,  and  his  first  book  was 
Modern  Painters.  Later  volumes  were  Stones  of  Venice, 
and  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture.  These  established  his 
position  as  one  of  the  great  art  critics  of  his  time,  and  as 
a  master  of  English  prose.  He  next  turned  his  attention 
to  social  and  economic  questions.  It  was  his  belief  that 
no  nation  could  produce  great  art  unless  it  had  moral 
and  spiritual  greatness  as  a  foundation.  He  saw  the 
English  people  in  their  great  industrial  development, 
forgetful  of  higher  things.  He  wrote  books  and  delivered 
lectures  untiringly  in  the  effort  to  arouse  the  nation  to  a 
sense  of  its  wrong  aims.  Nor  did  he  stop  at  writing.  The 
death  of  his  father  left  him  a  fortune  of  nearly  a  million 
dollars:  he  spent  practically  all  of  this  in  various  proj- 
ects for  bettering  the  condition  of  the  working  people 
of  England.  He  built  model  tenements,  established 
co-operative  associations,  started  schools  for  workers. 
Many  of  the  reform  movements  of  to-day  owe  their  origin 
to  John  Ruskin. 

He  wrote  a  great  number  of  books,  dealing  mainly 
with  the  three  great  interests  of  his  life,  painting,  archi- 
tecture, and  political  economy.  The  selection  "The  Sky" 
illustrates  Ruskin's  wonderful  descriptive  power,  and  his 
gift  of  writing  prose  that  has  the  beauty  and  music  of 
poetry. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 

THE  SKY 

(From  Modem  Painters) 

It  is  a  strange  thing  how  little  in  general  people  know 
about  the  sky.  It  is  the  part  of  creation  in  which  Nature 
has  done  more  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  man — more  for 
the  sole  and  evident  purpose  of  talking  to  him,  and  teach- 
ing him — than  in  any  other  of  her  works;  and  it  is  just 
the  part  in  which  we  least  attend  to  her.  There  are  not 
many  of  her  other  works  in  which  some  more  material 
or  essential  purpose  than  the  mere  pleasing  of  man  is 
not  answered  by  every  part  of  their  organization;  but 
every  essential  purpose  of  the  sky  might,  so  far  as  we  know, 
be  answered  if  once  in  three  days,  or  thereabouts,  a  great, 
ugly,  black  rain-cloud  were  brought  up  over  the  blue,  and 
everything  well  watered,  and  so  all  left  blue  again  till 
next  time,  with  perhaps  a  film  of  morning  and  evening 
mist  for  dew — and  instead  of  this,  there  is  not  a  moment 
of  any  day  of  our  lives,  when  Nature  is  not  producing 
scene  after  scene,  picture  after  picture,  glory  after  glory, 
and  working  still  upon  such  exquisite  and  constant  prin- 
ciples of  the  most  perfect  beauty,  that  it  is  quite  certain 
it  is  all  done  for  us,  and  intended  for  our  perpetual  plea- 
sure. And  every  man,  wherever  placed,  however  far 
from  other  sources  of  interest  of  or  beauty,  has  this  doing 
for  him  constantly.  The  noblest  scenes  of  the  earth 
can  be  seen  and  known  but  by  few;  it  is  not  intended  that 
man  should  live  always  in  the  midst  of  them;  he  injures 

105 


106  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

them  by  his  presence,  he  ceases  to  feel  them  if  he  is  always 
with  them;  but  the  sky  is  for  all:  bright  as  it  is,  it  is  not 

"too  bright  nor  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food;"* 

it  is  fitted  in  all  its  functions  for  the  perpetual  comfort 
and  exalting  of  the  heart, — for  soothing  it,  and  purifying 
it  from  its  dross  and  dust.  Sometimes  gentle,  sometimes 
capricious,  sometimes  awful — never  the  same  for  two 
moments  together;  almost  human  in  its  passions,  almost 
spiritual  in  its  tenderness,  almost  divine  in  its  infinity, 
its  appeal  to  what  is  immortal  in  us  is  as  distinct  as  its 
ministry  of  chastisement  or  of  blessing  to  what  is  mortal 
is  essential. 

And  yet  we  never  attend  to  it,  we  never  make  it  a  sub- 
ject of  thought,  but  as  it  has  to  do  with  our  animal  sensa- 
tions; we  look  upon  all  by  which  it  speaks  to  us  more 
clearly  than  to  brutes,  upon  all  which  bears  witness  to 
the  intention  of  the  Supreme  that  we  are  to  receive  more 
from  the  covering  vault  than  the  light  and  the  dew  which 
we  share  with  the  weed  and  the  worm,  only  as  a  succes- 
sion of  meaningless  and  monotonous  accident,  too  com- 
mon and  too  vain  to  be  worthy  of  a  moment  of  watch- 
fulness, or  a  glance  of  admiration.  If  in  our  moments 
of  utter  idleness  and  insipidity,  we  turn  to  the  sky  as 
a  last  resource,  which  of  its  phenomena  do  we  speak 
of?  One  says,  it  has  been  wet;  and  another,  it  has  been 
windy,  and  another,  it  has  been  warm.  Who  among  the 
whole  chattering  crowd  can  tell  one  of  the  forms  and  the 
precipices  of  the  chain  of  tall  white  mountains  that  girded 
the  horizon  at  noon  yesterday?  Who  saw  the  narrow 
sunbeam  that  came  out  of  the  south,  and  smote  upon  their 
summits  until  they  melted  and  mouldered  away  in  the 

*  Quoted  from  Wordsworth's  "She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight." 


JOHN  RUSKIN  107 

dust  of  blue  rain  ?  Who  saw  the  dance  of  the  dead  clouds 
where  the  sunlight  left  them  last  night,  and  the  west 
wind  blew  them  before  it  like  withered  leaves?  All 
has  passed  unregretted  as  unseen;  or  if  the  apathy  be 
ever  shaken  off  even  for  an  instant,  it  is  only  by  what  is 
gross,  or  what  is  extraordinary.  And  yet  it  is  not  in  the 
broad  and  fierce  manifestations  of  the  elemental  energies, 
nor  in  the  clash  of  the  hail,  nor  the  drift  of  the  whirl- 
wind, that  the  highest  characters  of  the  sublime  are  de- 
veloped. God  is  not  in  the  earthquake,  nor  in  the  fire, 
but  in  the  still  small  voice.  They  are  but  the  blunt 
and  the  low  faculties  of  our  nature,  which  can  only  be 
addressed  through  lamp-black  and  lightning.  It  is  in 
quiet  and  unsubdued  passages  of  unobtrusive  majesty, 
the  deep  and  the  calm,  and  the  perpetual;  that  which 
must  be  sought  ere  it  is  seen,  and  loved  ere  it  is  under- 
stood; things  which  the  angels  work  out  for  us  daily,  and 
yet  vary  eternally;  which  are  never  wanting,  and  never 
repeated,  which  are  to  be  found  always,  yet  each  found 
but  once;  it  is  through  these  that  the  lesson  of  devotion 
is  chiefly  taught,  and  the  blessing  of  beauty  given. 

We  habitually  think  of  the  rain-cloud  only  as  dark  and 
gray;  not  knowing  that  we  owe  to  it  perhaps  the  fairest, 
though  not  the  most  dazzling,  of  the  hues  of  heaven. 
Often  in  our  English  mornings,  the  rain-clouds  in  the  dawn 
form  soft,  level  fields,  which  melt  imperceptibly  into 
the  blue;  or,  when  of  less  extent,  gather  into  apparent 
bars,  crossing  the  sheets  of  broader  clouds  above;  and  all 
these  bathed  throughout  in  an  unspeakable  light  of  pure 
rose-color,  and  purple,  and  amber,  and  blue;  not  shining, 
but  misty-soft;  the  barred  masses,  when  seen  nearer, 
composed  of  clusters  or  tresses  of  cloud,  like  floss  silk; 
looking  as  if  each  knot  were  a  little  swathe  or  sheaf  of 
lighted  rain. 

Has  the  reader  any  distinct  idea  of  what  clouds  are? 


108  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

That  mist  which  lies  in  the  morning  so  softly  in  the 
valley,  level  and  white,  through  which  the  tops  of  the 
trees  rise  as  if  through  an  inundation — why  is  it  so  heavy, 
and  why  does  it  lie  so  low,  being  yet  so  thin  and  frail 
that  it  will  melt  away  utterly  into  splendor  of  morning 
when  the  sun  has  shone  on  it  but  a  few  moments  more? 
Those  colossal  pyramids,  huge  and  firm,  with  outlines  as 
of  rocks,  and  strength  to  bear  the  beating  of  the  high  sun 
full  on  their  fiery  flanks, — why  are  they  so  light,  their 
bases  high  over  our  heads,  high  over  the  heads  of  Alps? 
Why  will  these  melt  away,  not  as  the  sun  rises,  but  as 
he  descends,  and  leave  the  stars  of  twilight  clear;  while 
the  valley  vapor  gains  again  upon  the  earth,  like  a  shroud  ? 
Or  that  ghost  of  a  cloud,  which  steals  by  yonder  clump 
of  pines;  nay,  which  does  not  steal  by  them,  but  haunts 
them,  wreathing  yet  round  them,  and  yet, — and  yet, — 
slowly;  now  falling  in  a  fair  waved  line  like  a  woman's 
veil;  now  fading,  now  gone;  we  look  away  for  an  instant, 
and  look  back,  and  it  is  again  there.  What  has  it  to  do 
with  that  clump  of  pines,  that  it  broods  by  them,  and 
waves  itself  among  their  branches,  to  and  fro?  Has  it 
hidden  a  cloudy  treasure  among  the  moss  at  their  roots, 
which  it  watches  thus?  Or  has  some  strong  enchanter 
charmed  it  into  fond  returning,  or  bound  it  fast  within 
those  bars  of  bough?  And  yonder  filmy  crescent,  bent 
like  an  archer's  bow  above  the  snowy  summit,  the  highest 
of  all  the  hills — that  white  arch  which  never  forms  but 
over  the  supreme  crest, — how  it  is  stayed  there,  repelled 
apparently  from  the  snow, — nowhere  touching  it,  the 
clear  sky  seen  between  it  and  the  mountain  edge,  yet 
never  leaving  it — poised  as  a  white  bird  hovers  over  its 
nest !  Or  those  war  clouds  that  gather  on  the  horizon, 
dragon-crested,  tongued  with  fire, — how  is  their  barbed 
strength  bridled  ?  What  bits  are  those  they  are  champing 
with  their  vaporous  lips,  flinging  off  flakes  of  black  foam  ? 
Leagued  leviathans  of  the  Sea  and  Heaven, — out  of  their 


JOHN  RUSKIN  109 

nostrils  goeth  smoke,  and  their  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids 
of  the  morning;  the  sword  of  him  that  layeth  at  them  can- 
not hold  the  spear,  the  dart,  nor  the  habergeon.  Where 
ride  the  captains  of  their  armies?  Where  are  set  the 
measures  of  their  march?  Fierce  murmurers,  answering 
each  other  from  morning  until  evening — what  rebuke  is 
this  which  has  awed  them  into  peace; — what  hand  has 
reined  them  back  by  the  way  in  which  they  came? 

I  know  not  if  the  reader  will  think  at  first  that  ques- 
tions like  these  are  easily  answered.  So  far  from  it,  I 
rather  believe  that  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  clouds 
never  will  be  understood  by  us  at  all.  "Knowest  thou 
the  balancing  of  the  clouds  ?"  Is  the  answer  ever  to  be 
one  of  pride?  The  wondrous  works  of  Him,  which  is 
perfect  in  knowledge!  Is  our  knowledge  ever  to  be 
so?  ... 

On  some  isolated  mountain  at  daybreak,  whenfjjie 
niglit  mists/first  rise  from  off  the  plain,  watch  their  white 
and  lake-fife  fields,  as  they  float  in  level  bays,  and  wind- 
ing gulfs  about  the  islanded  summits  of  the  lower  hills, 
untouched  yet  by  more  than  dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet 
than  a  windless  sea  under  the  moon  of  midnight;  watch 
when  the  first  sunbeam  is  sent  upon  the  silver  channels, 
how  the  foam  of  their  undulating  surface^  parts,  and  passes 
away,  and  down  under  then*  depths  the"  glittering  city 
and  green  pasture  lie  like  Atlantis,  between  the  white 
paths  of  winding  rivers;  the  flakes  of  light  falling  every 
moment  faster  and  broker  among  the  starry  spires,  as 
the  wreathed  surges  break  and  vanish  above  them,  and 
the  confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the  dark  hills  shorten 
their  gray  shadows  upon  the  plain.  Wait  a  little  longer, 
and  you  shall  see  those  scattered  mists  rallying  in  the 
ravines,  and  floating  up  toward  you,  along  the  winding 
valleys,  till  they  couch  in  quiet  masses,  iridescent  with 
the  morning  light,  upon  the  broad  breasts  of  the  higher 
hills,  whose  leagues  of  massy  undulation  will  melt  back, 


110  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

back  into  that  robe  of  material  light,  until  they  fade  away, 
and  set  in  its  lustre,  to  appear  again  above  in  the  serene 
heaven  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible  dream,  foundation- 
less,  and  inaccessible,  their  very  base  vanishing  in  the 
unsubstantial,  and  making  blue  of  the  deep  lake  below. 
Wait  yet  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those  mists 
gather  themselves  into  white  towers,  and  stand  like  for- 
tresses along  the  promontories,  massy  and  motionless, 
only  piled  with  every  instant  higher  and  higher  into  the 
sky,  and  casting  longer  shadows  athwart  the  rocks;  and 
out  of  the  pale  blue  of  the  horizon  you  will  see  forming 
and  advancing  a  troop  of  narrow,  dark,  pointed  vapors, 
which  will  cover  the  sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their  gray 
network,  and  take  the  light  off  the  landscape  with  an 
eclipse  which  will  stop  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and  the 
motion  of  the  leaves,  together; — and  then  you  will  see 
horizontal  bars  of  black  shadow  forming  under  them,  and 
lurid  wreaths  create  themselves,  you  know  not  how, 
among  the  shoulders  of  the  hills;  you  never  see  them  form, 
but  when  you  look  back  to  a  place  which  was  clear  an 
instant  ago,  there  is  a  cloud  on  it,  hanging  by  the  precipice 
as  a  hawk  pauses  over  his  prey; — and  then  you  will  hear 
the  sudden  rush  of  the  awakened  wind,  and  you  will  see 
those  watch-towers  of  vapor  swept  away  from  their  foun- 
dations, and  waving  curtains  of  opaque  rain  let  down  to 
the  valley,  swinging  from  the  burdened  clouds  in  black 
bending  fringes,  or,  pacing  in  pale  columns  along  the 
lake  level,  grazing  its  surface  into  foam  as  they  go.  And 
then  as  the  sun  sinks  you  shall  see  the  storm  drift  for  an 
instant  from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their  broad  sides  smok- 
ing and  loaded  yet  with  snow-white,  torn,  steam-like 
rags  of  capricious  vapor,  now  gone,  now  gathered  again, — 
while  the  smouldering  sun,  seeming  not  far  away,  but 
burning  like  a  red-hot  ball  beside  you,  and  as  if  you  could 
reach  it,  plunges  through  the  rushing  wind  and  rolling 


JOHN  RUSKIN  111 

cloud  with  headlong  fall,  as  if  it  meant  to  rise  no  more, 
dyeing  all  the  air  about  it  with  blood; — and  then  you  shall 
hear  the  fainting  tempest  die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night, 
and  you  shall  see  a  green  halo  kindling  on  the  summit  of 
the  eastern  hills,  brighter,  brighter  yet,  till  the  large  white 
circle  of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted  up  among  the  barred 
clouds,  step  by  step,  line  by  line;  star  after  star  she 
quenches  with  her  kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead 
an  army  of  pale,  penetrable  fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven, 
to  give  light  upon  the  earth,  which  move  together  hand 
in  hand,  company  by  company,  troop  by  troop,  so  mea- 
sured in  their  unity  of  motion  that  the  whole  heaven 
seems  to  roll  with  them,  and  the  earth  to  reel  under  them. 
And  then  wait  yet  for  one  hour,  until  the  east  again  be- 
comes purple,  and  the  heaving  mountains,  rolling  against 
it  in  darkness,  like  waves  of  a  wild  sea,  are  drowned  one 
by  one  in  the  glory  of  its  burning;  watch  the  white  gla- 
ciers blaze  in  their  winding  paths  about  the  mountains, 
like  mighty  serpents  with  scales  of  fire:  watch  the  col- 
umnar peaks  of  solitary  snow,  kindling  downward  chasm 
by  chasm,  each  in  itself  a  new  morning — their  long  ava- 
lanches cast  down  in  keen  streams  brighter  than  the  light- 
ning, sending  each  his  tribute  of  driven  snow,  like  altar- 
smoke  up  to  heaven,  the  rose-light  of  their  silent  domes 
flushing  that  heaven  about  them,  and  above  them,  pierc- 
ing with  purer  light  through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud, 
casting  a  new  glory  on  every  wreath,  as  it  passes  by, 
until  the  whole  heaven,  one  scarlet  canopy,  is  interwoven 
with  a  roof  of  waving  flame,  and  tossing  vault  beyond 
vault,  as  with  the  drifted  wings  of  many  companies  of 
angels:  and  then  when  you  can  look  no  more  for  gladness, 
and  when  you  are  bowed  down  with  fear  and  love  of  the 
Maker  and  Doer  of  this,  tell  me  who  has  best  delivered 
this  His  message  unto  men ! 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 
THE  SITE  OF  A  UNIVERSITY 


John  Henry  Newman  (1801-1890),  often  called  Cardinal 
Newman,  belonged  to  the  writers  of  the  Victorian  group. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  London  banker.  He  early  showed 
his  bent  to  literature,  writing  verses  at  nine  and  a  drama 
at  twelve.  Later  he  entered  Oxford,  where  he  won  a  fel- 
lowship. His  life  was  spent  as  a  clergyman,  first  in  the 
Church  of  England,  later  in  the  Roman  Catholic  faith; 
the  reasons  for  his  change  of  belief  are  told  in  his  Apologia 
pro  Vita  Sua  (Apology  for  His  Life).  He  was  rector  of 
the  Catholic  University  at  Dublin  from  1854  to  1858; 
he  was  made  a  cardinal  in  1879.  Most  of  his  life  was 
spent  at  Birmingham,  England.  His  writings  include  two 
novels,  Loss  and  Gain  and  Callista ;  a  number  of  poems, 
including  the  well-known  hymn  "Lead,  Kindly  Light"; 
and  a  volume  of  essays  entitled  The  Idea  of  a  Univer- 
sity, written  while  he  was  at  Dublin  University. 

Newman  is  considered  one  of  the  great  masters  of  Eng- 
lish prose.  He  took  the  greatest  pains  with  his  work, 
often  writing  whole  chapters  over  and  over  again,  be- 
sides making  innumerable  corrections.  But  in  the  fin- 
ished work  there  is  no  trace  of  labor;  his  essays  have  the 
clearness  and  beauty  of  a  statue.  The  description  of 
Athens,  in  the  selection  here  given,  is  one  of  the  finest  ex- 
amples of  Newman's  style. 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 
THE  SITE  OF  A  UNIVERSITY 

(From  Historical  Sketches,  vol.  Ill) 

If  we  would  know  what  a  University  is,  considered  in 
its  elementary  idea,  we  must  betake  ourselves  to  the  first 
and  most  celebrated  home  of  European  literature  and 
source  of  European  civilization,  to  the  bright  and  beau- 
tiful Athens, — Athens,  whose  schools  drew  to  her  bosom, 
and  then  sent  back  again  to  the  business  of  life,  the  youth 
of  the  Western  World  for  a  long  thousand  years.  Seated 
on  the  verge  of  the  continent,  the  city  seemed  hardly 
suited  for  the  duties  of  a  central  metropolis  of  knowl- 
edge; yet  what  it  lost  in  convenience  of  approach,  it 
gained  in  its  neighborhood  to  the  traditions  of  the  mysteri- 
ous East,  and  in  the  loveliness  of  the  region  in  which  it 
lay.  Hither,  then,  as  to  a  sort  of  ideal  land,  where  all 
archetypes  of  the  great  and  the  fair  were  found  in  sub- 
stantial being,  and  all  departments  of  truth  explored,  and 
all  diversities  of  intellectual  power  exhibited,  where  taste 
and  philosophy  were  majestically  enthroned  as  in  a  royal 
court,  where  there  was  no  sovereignty  but  that  of  mind, 
and  nobility  but  that  of  genius,  where  professors  were 
rulers,  and  princes  did  homage,  hither  flocked  continually 
from  the  very  corners  of  the  orbis  terrarum,*  the  many- 
tongued  generation,  just  rising,  or  just  risen  into  manhood, 
in  order  to  gain  wisdom. 

Pisistratus  had  in  an  early  age  discovered  and  nursed 
the  infant  genius  of  his  people,  and  Cimon,  after  the 
Persian  war,  had  given  it  a  home.     That  war  had  estab- 
lished the  naval  supremacy  of  Athens;  she  had  become 
*  Orbis  terrarum,  the  circle  of  the  world. 
115 


116  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

an  imperial  state;  and  the  lonians,  bound  to  her  by  the 
double  chain  of  kindred  and  of  subjection,  were  import- 
ing into  her  both  their  merchandise  and  their  civilization. 
The  arts  and  philosophy  of  the  Asiatic  coast  were  easily 
carried  across  the  sea,  and  there  was  Cimon,  as  I  have 
said,  with  his  ample  fortune,  ready  to  receive  them  with 
due  honors.  Not  content  with  patronizing  their  pro- 
fessors, he  built  the  first  of  those  noble  porticos,  of  which 
we  hear  so  much  in  Athens,  and  he  formed  the  groves, 
which  in  process  of  time  became  the  celebrated  Academy. 
Planting  is  one  of  the  most  graceful,  as  in  Athens  it  was 
one  of  the  most  beneficent,  of  employments.  Cimon 
took  in  hand  the  wild  wood,  pruned  and  dressed  it,  and 
laid  it  out  with  handsome  walks  and  welcome  fountains. 
Nor,  while  hospitable  to  the  authors  of  the  city's  civili- 
zation, was  he  ungrateful  to  the  instruments  of  her  pros- 
perity. His  trees  extended  their  cool,  umbrageous 
branches  over  the  merchants  who  assembled  in  the  Agora, 
for  many  generations. 

Those  merchants  certainly  had  deserved  that  act  of 
bounty;  for  all  the  while  their  ships  had  been  carrying 
forth  the  intellectual  fame  of  Athens  to  the  western  world. 
Then  commenced  what  may  be  called  her  University 
existence.  Pericles,  who  succeeded  Cimon  both  in  the 
government  and  in  the  patronage  of  art,  is  said  by  Plu- 
tarch to  have  entertained  the  idea  of  making  Athens  the 
capital  of  federated  Greece:  in  this  he  failed,  but  his 
encouragement  of  such  men  as  Phidias  and  Anaxagoras 
led  the  way  to  her  acquiring  a  far  more  lasting  sover- 
eignty over  a  far  wider  empire.  Little  understanding 
the  sources  of  her  own  greatness,  Athens  would  go  to 
war:  peace  is  the  interest  of  a  seat  of  commerce  and  the 
arts;  but  to  war  she  went;  yet  to  her,  whether  peace  or 
war,  it  mattered  not.  The  political  power  of  Athens 
waned  and  disappeared;  kingdoms  rose  and  fell;  centuries 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  117 

rolled  away, — they  did  but  bring  fresh  triumphs  to  the  city 
of  the  poet  and  the  sage.  There  at  length  the  swarthy 
Moor  and  Spaniard  were  seen  to  meet  the  blue-eyed 
Gaul;  and  the  Cappadocian,  late  subject  of  Mithridates, 
gazed  without  alarm  at  the  haughty  conquering  Roman. 
Revolution  after  revolution  passed  over  the  face  of 
Europe,  as  well  as  of  Greece,  but  still  she  was  there, — 
Athens,  the  city  of  mind, — as  radiant,  as  splendid,  as 
delicate,  as  young  as  ever  she  had  been. 

Many  a  more  fruitful  coast  or  isle  is  washed  by  the  blue 
jEgean,  many  a  spot  is  there  more  beautiful  or  sublime 
to  see,  many  a  territory  more  ample;  but  there  was  one 
charm  in  Attica,  which  in  the  same  perfection  was  no- 
where else.  The  deep  pastures  of  Arcadia,  the  plain  of 
Argos,  the  Thessalian  vale,  these  had  not  the  gift;  Bceotia, 
which  lay  to  its  immediate  north,  was  notorious  for  its 
very  want  of  it.  The  heavy  atmosphere  of  that  Bceotia 
might  be  good  for  vegetation,  but  it  was  associated  in 
popular  belief  with  the  dulness  of  the  Boeotian  intellect: 
on  the  contrary,  the  special  purity,  elasticity,  clearness, 
and  salubrity  of  the  air  of  Attica,  lit  concomitant  and  em- 
blem of  its  genius,  did  that  for  it  which  earth  did  not; — 
it  brought  out  every  bright  hue  and  tender  shade  of  the 
landscape  over  which  it  was  spread,  and  would  have 
illuminated  the  face  even  of  a  more  bare  and  rugged 
country. 

A  confined  triangle,  perhaps  fifty  miles  its  greatest 
length,  and  thirty  its  greatest  breadth;  two  elevated  rocky 
barriers,  meeting  at  an  angle;  three  prominent  moun- 
tains, commanding  the  plain, — Parnes,  Pentelicus,  and 
Hymettus;  an  unsatisfactory  soil;  some  streams,  not 
always  full; — such  is  about  the  report  which  the  agent 
of  a  London  company  would  have  made  of  Attica.  He 
would  report  that  the  climate  was  mild;  the  hills  were 
limestone;  there  was  plenty  of  good  marble;  more  pasture- 


118  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

land  than  at  first  survey  might  have  been  expected, 
sufficient  certainly  for  sheep  and  goats;  fisheries  produc- 
tive; silver-mines  once,  but  long  since  worked  out;  figs 
fair;  oil  first-rate;  olives  in  profusion.  But  what  he  would 
not  think  of  noting  down,  was,  that  that  olive-tree  was 
so  choice  in  nature  and  so  noble  in  shape,  that  it  excited 
a  religious  veneration;  and  that  it  took  so  kindly  to  the 
light  soil,  as  to  expand  into  woods  upon  the  open  plain, 
and  to  climb  up  and  fringe  the  hills.  He  would  not  think 
of  writing  word  to  his  employers,  how  that  clear  air,  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  brought  out,  yet  blended  and  sub- 
dued, the  colors  on  the  marble,  till  they  had  a  softness 
and  harmony,  for  all  their  richness,  which  in  a  picture 
looks  exaggerated,  yet  is  after  all  within  the  truth.  He 
would  not  tell,  how  that  same  delicate  and  brilliant  at- 
mosphere freshened  up  the  pale  olive,  till  the  olive  for- 
got its  monotony,  and  its  cheek  glowed  like  the  arbutus 
or  beech  of  the  Umbrian  hills.  He  would  say  nothing  of 
the  thyme  and  thousand  fragrant  herbs  which  carpeted 
Hymettus;  he  would  hear  nothing  of  the  hum  of  its  bees; 
nor  take  much  account  of  the  rare  flavor  of  its  honey, 
since  Gozo  and  Minorca  were  sufficient  for  the  English 
demand.  He  would  look  over  the  ^Egean  from  the 
height  he  had  ascended:  he  would  follow  with  his  eye 
the  chain  of  islands,  which,  starting  from  the  Sunian 
headland,  seemed  to  offer  the  fabled  divinities  of  Attica, 
when  they  would  visit  their  Ionian  cousins,  a  sort  of  via- 
duct thereto  across  the  sea:  but  that  fancy  would  not 
occur  to  him,  nor  any  admiration  of  the  dark  violet 
billows  with  their  white  edges  down  below;  nor  of  those 
graceful,  fan-like  jets  of  silver  upon  the  rocks,  which 
slowly  rise  aloft  like  water  spirits  from  the  deep,  then 
shiver,  and  break,  and  spread,  and  shroud  themselves, 
and  disappear,  in  a  soft  mist  of  foam;  nor  of  the  gentle, 
incessant  heaving  and  panting  of  the  whole  liquid  plain; 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  119 

nor  of  the  long  waves,  keeping  steady  time,  like  a  line  of 
soldiery,  as  they  resound  upon  the  hollow  shore, — he 
would  not  deign  to  notice  that  restless  living  element  at 
all,  except  to  bless  his  stars  that  he  was  not  upon  it. 
Nor  the  distinct  detail,  nor  the  refined  coloring,  nor  the 
graceful  outline  and  roseate  golden  hue  of  the  jutting 
crags,  nor  the  bold  shadows  cast  from  Otus  or  Laurium 
by  the  declining  sun; — our  agent  of  a  mercantile  firm 
would  not  value  these  matters  even  at  a  low  figure. 
Rather  we  must  turn  for  the  sympathy  we  seek  to  yon 
pilgrim  student  come  from  a  semi-barbarous  land  to  that 
small  corner  of  the  earth,  as  to  a  shrine,  where  he  might 
take  his  fill  of  gazing  on  those  emblems  and  coruscations 
of  invisible  unoriginate  perfection.  It  was  the  stranger 
from  a  remote  province,  from  Britain  or  from  Mauri- 
tania, who  in  a  scene  so  different  from  that  of  his  chilly, 
woody  swamps,  or  of  his  fiery  choking  sands,  learned  at 
once  what  a  real  University  must  be,  by  coming  to  under- 
stand the  sort  of  country  which  was  its  suitable  home. 

Nor  was  this  all  that  a  University  required,  and  found 
in  Athens.  No  one,  even  there,  could  live  on  poetry. 
If  the  students  at  that  famous  place  had  nothing  better 
than  bright  hues  and  soothing  sounds,  they  would  not 
have  been  able  or  disposed  to  turn  their  residence  there 
to  much  account.  Of  course  they  must  have  the  means 
of  living,  nay,  in  a  certain  sense,  of  enjoyment,  if  Athens 
was  to  be  an  Alma  Mater  at  the  time,  or  to  remain  after- 
ward a  pleasant  thought  in  their  memory.  And  so  they 
had:  be  it  recollected  Athens  was  a  port,  and  a  mart  of 
trade,  perhaps  the  first  in  Greece;  and  this  was  very  much 
to  the  point,  when  a  number  of  strangers  were  ever  flock- 
ing to  it,  whose  combat  was  to  be  with  intellectual,  not 
physical  difficulties,  and  who  claimed  to  have  their  bodily 
wants  supplied,  that  they  might  be  at  leisure  to  set  about 
furnishing  their  minds.  Now,  barren  as  was  the  soil 


120  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

of  Attica,  and  bare  the  face  of  the  country,  yet  it  had 
only  too  many  resources  for  an  elegant,  nay  luxurious 
abode  there.  So  abundant  were  the  imports  of  the  place, 
that  it  was  a  common  saying,  that  the  productions,  which 
were  found  singly  elsewhere,  were  brought  all  together 
in  Athens.  Corn  and  wine,  the  staple  of  subsistence  in 
such  a  climate,  came  from  the  isles  of  the  ^Egean;  fine 
wool  and  carpeting  from  Asia  Minor;  slaves,  as  now, 
from  the  Euxine,  and  timber  too;  and  iron  and  brass 
from  the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  Athenian 
did  not  condescend  to  manufactures  himself,  but  encour- 
aged them  in  others;  and  a  population  of  foreigners  caught 
at  the  lucrative  occupation  both  for  home  consumption 
and  for  exportation.  Their  cloth,  and  other  textures 
for  dress  and  furniture,  and  their  hardware — for  instance, 
armor — were  in  great  request.  Labor  was  cheap;  stone 
and  marble  in  plenty;  and  the  taste  and  skill,  which  at 
first  were  devoted  to  public  buildings,  as  temples  and 
porticos,  were  in  course  of  time  applied  to  the  mansions 
of  public  men.  If  nature  did  much  for  Athens,  it  is  un- 
deniable that  art  did  much  more. 

Here  some  one  will  interrupt  me  with  the  remark: 
*'by  the  by,  where  are  we,  and  whither  are  we  going? — 
what  has  all  this  to  do  with  a  University?  at  least  what 
has  it  to  do  with  education?  It  is  instructive  doubtless; 
but  still  how  much  has  it  to  do  with  your  subject  ? "  Now 
I  beg  to  assure  the  reader  that  I  am  most  conscientiously 
employed  upon  my  subject;  and  I  should  have  thought 
every  one  would  have  seen  this:  however,  since  the  ob- 
jection is  made,  I  may  be  allowed  to  pause  awhile,  and 
show  distinctly  the  drift  of  what  I  have  been  saying,  be- 
fore I  go  farther.  What  has  this  to  do  with  my  subject ! 
why,  the  question  of  the  site  is  the  very  first  that  comes 
into  consideration,  when  a  Studium  Generate  *  is  contem- 
plated; for  that  site  should  be  a  liberal  and  noble  one; 

*  Studium  Generate,  a  course  of  study  embracing  all  subjects. 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  121 

who  will  deny  it  ?  All  authorities  agree  in  this,  and  very 
little  reflection  will  be  sufficient  to  make  it  clear.  I 
recollect  a  conversation  I  once  had  on  this  very  subject 
with  a  very  eminent  man.  I  was  a  youth  of  eighteen, 
and  was  leaving  my  University  for  the  Long  Vacation, 
when  I  found  myself  in  company  in  a  public  conveyance 
with  a  middle-aged  person,  whose  face  was  strange  to 
me.  However,  it  was  the  great  academical  luminary  of 
the  day,  whom  afterward  I  knew  very  well.  Luckily 
for  me,  I  did  not  suspect  it;  and  luckily  too,  it  was  a 
fancy  of  his,  as  his  friends  knew,  to  make  himself  on  easy 
terms  especially  with  stage-coach  companions.  So,  what 
with  my  flippancy  and  his  condescension,  I  managed  to 
hear  many  things  which  were  novel  to  me  at  the  time; 
and  one  point  which  he  was  strong  upon,  and  was  evi- 
dently fond  of  urging,  was  the  material  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance which  should  environ  a  great  seat  of  learning. 
He  considered  it  was  worth  the  consideration  of  the 
government,  whether  Oxford  should  not  stand  in  a  do- 
main of  its  own.  An  ample  range,  say  four  miles  in  di- 
ameter, should  be  turned  into  wood  and  meadow,  and 
the  University  should  be  approached  on  all  sides  by  a 
magnificent  park,  with  fine  trees  in  groups  and  groves 
and  avenues,  and  with  glimpses  and  views  of  the  fair 
city,  as  the  traveller  drew  near  it.  There  is  nothing 
surely  absurd  in  the  idea,  though  it  would  cost  a  round 
sum  to  realize  it.  What  has  a  better  claim  to  the  purest 
and  fairest  possessions  of  nature,  than  the  seat  of  wisdom  ? 
So  thought  my  coach  companion;  and  he  did  but  express 
the  tradition  of  ages  and  the  instinct  of  mankind. 

For  instance,  take  the  great  University  of  Paris.  That 
famous  school  engrossed  as  its  territory  the  whole  south 
bank  of  the  Seine,  and  occupied  one  half,  and  that  the 
pleasanter  half,  of  the  city.  King  Louis  had  the  island 
pretty  well  as  his  own, — it  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
fortification;  and  the  north  of  the  river  was  given  over  to 


122  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

the  nobles  and  citizens  to  do  what  they  could  with  its 
marshes;  but  the  eligible  south,  rising  from  the  stream, 
which  swept  around  its  base,  to  the  fair  summit  of  St. 
Genevieve,  with  its  broad  meadows,  its  vineyards  and 
its  gardens,  and  with  the  sacred  elevation  of  Montmartre 
confronting  it,  all  this  was  the  inheritance  of  the  Uni- 
versity. There  was  that  pleasant  Pratum,  stretching 
along  the  river's  bank,  in  which  the  students  for  centuries 
took  their  recreation,  which  Alcuin  seems  to  mention  in 
his  farewell  verses  to  Paris,  and  which  has  given  a  name 
to  the  great  Abbey  of  St.  Germain-des-Pres.  For  long 
years  it  was  devoted  to  the  purposes  of  innocent  and 
healthy  enjoyment;  but  evil  times  came  on  the  University; 
disorder  arose  within  its  precincts,  and  the  fair  meadow 
became  the  scene  of  party  brawls;  heresy  stalked  through 
Europe,  and  Germany  and  England  no  longer  sending 
their  contingent  of  students,  a  heavy  debt  was  the  con- 
sequence to  the  academical  body.  To  let  their  land  was 
the  only  resource  left  to  them:  buildings  rose  upon  it, 
and  spread  along  the  green  sod,  and  the  country  at  length 
became  town.  Great  was  the  grief  and  indignation  of 
the  doctors  and  masters,  when  this  catastrophe  occurred. 
"A  wretched  sight,"  said  the  Proctor  of  the  German 
nation,  "a  wretched  sight,  to  witness  the  sale  of  that 
ancient  manor,  whither  the  Muses  were  wont  to  wander 
for  retirement  and  pleasure.  Whither  shall  the  youthful 
student  now  betake  himself,  what  relief  will  he  find  for 
his  eyes,  wearied  with  intense  reading,  now  that  the 
pleasant  stream  is  taken  from  him?"  Two  centuries 
and  more  have  passed  since  this  complaint  was  uttered; 
and  tune  has  shown  that  the  outward  calamity,  which 
it  recorded,  was  but  the  emblem  of  the  great  moral  revolu- 
tion, which  was  to  follow;  till  the  institution  itself  has 
followed  its  green  meadows,  into  the  region  of  things 
which  once  were  and  now  are  not. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

THE  SEA  FOGS 


While  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  living  in  an  art 
colony  near  Paris  he  met  Mrs.  Fanny  Osbourne,  and  fell 
in  love  with  her.  She  returned  to  her  home  in  California; 
Stevenson  heard  that  she  was  ill  and  in  trouble,  and  rushed 
to  her  assistance.  His  means  were  so  scanty  that  he 
crossed  as  a  steerage  passenger,  and  travelled  from  New 
York  to  San  Francisco  in  an  emigrant  train.  The  ex- 
perience nearly  cost  him  his  life,  but  Mrs.  Osbourne 
nursed  him  through  his  illness,  and  in  the  spring  of  1880 
they  were  married.  The  honeymoon  was  spent  in  an 
abandoned  mining  camp  in  the  California  mountains: 
the  record  of  these  weeks  is  given  in  the  book  The  Silverado 
Squatters.  They  had  chosen  a  lofty  spot  to  be  out  of  the 
fogs;  in  the  following  essay  Stevenson  describes  how  he 
was  almost  overtaken  by  them.  One  can  imagine  the 
frail,  eager  half-invalid,  his  own  danger  forgotten  in  the 
transport  of  gazing  upon  the  wonderful  spectacle,  and 
perhaps  even  as  he  looked,  fitting  words  to  the  scene. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

THE  SEA  FOGS 

(From  The  Silverado  Squatters) 

A  change  in  the  color  of  the  light  usually  called  me  in 
the  morning.  By  a  certain  hour,  the  long,  vertical  chinks 
in  our  western  gable,  where  the  boards  had  shrunk  and 
separated,  flashed  suddenly  into  my  eyes  as  stripes  of 
dazzling  blue,  at  once  so  dark  and  splendid  that  I  used  to 
marvel  how  the  qualities  could  be  combined.  At  an 
earlier  hour,  the  heavens  in  that  quarter  were  still  quietly 
colored,  but  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain  which  shuts 
in  the  canyon  already  glowed  with  sunlight  in  a  wonder- 
ful compound  of  gold  and  rose  and  green;  and  this  too 
would  kindle,  although  more  mildly  and  with  rainbow 
tints,  the  fissures  of  our  crazy  gable.  If  I  were  sleeping 
heavily,  it  was  the  bold  blue  that  struck  me  awake;  if 
more  lightly,  then  I  would  come  to  myself  in  that  earlier 
and  fairer  light. 

One  Sunday  morning,  about  five,  the  first  brightness 
called  me.  I  rose  and  turned  to  the  east,  not  for  my 
devotions,  but  for  air.  The  night  had  been  very  still. 
The  little  private  gale  that  blew  every  evening  in  our 
canyon,  for  ten  minutes  or  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
had  swiftly  blown  itself  out;  in  the  hours  that  followed 
not  a  sigh  of  wind  had  shaken  the  tree  tops;  and  our 
barrack,  for  all  its  breaches,  was  less  fresh  that  morning 
than  of  wont.  But  I  had  no  sooner  reached  the  window 
than  I  forgot  all  else  in  the  sight  that  met  my  eyes,  and 
I  made  but  two  bounds  into  my  clothes,  and  down  the 
crazy  plank  to  the  platform. 

125 


126  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

The  sun  was  still  concealed  below  the  opposite  hill- 
tops, though  it  was  shining  already,  not  twenty  feet 
above  my  head,  on  our  own  mountain  slope.  But  the 
scene,  beyond  a  few  near  features,  was  entirely  changed. 
Napa  Valley  was  gone;  gone  were  all  the  lower  slopes 
and  woody  foot-hills  of  the  range;  and  in  their  place,  not 
a  thousand  feet  below  me,  rolled  a  great  level  ocean. 
It  was  as  though  I  had  gone  to  bed  the  night  before, 
safe  in  a  nook  of  inland  mountains,  and  had  awakened 
in  a  bay  upon  the  coast.  I  had  seen  these  inundations 
from  below;  at  Calistoga  I  had  risen  and  gone  abroad  in 
the  early  morning,  coughing  and  sneezing,  under  fathoms 
on  fathoms  of  gray  sea  vapor,  like  a  cloudy  sky — a  dull 
sight  for  the  artist,  and  a  painful  experience  for  the  in- 
valid. But  to  sit  aloft  one's  self  in  the  pure  air  and 
under  the  unclouded  dome  of  heaven,  and  thus  look  down 
on  the  submergence  of  the  valley,  was  strangely  differ- 
ent and  even  delightful  to  the  eyes.  Far  away  were  hill- 
tops like  little  islands.  Nearer,  a  smoky  surf  beat  about 
the  foot  of  precipices  and  poured  into  all  the  coves  of 
these  rough  mountains.  The  color  of  that  fog  ocean  was 
a  thing  never  to  be  forgotten.  For  an  instant,  among  the 
Hebrides  and  just  about  sundown,  I  have  seen  something 
like  it  on  the  sea  itself.  But  the  white  was  not  so  opa- 
line; nor  was  there,  what  surprisingly  increased  the  effect, 
that  breathless,  crystal  stillness  over  all.  Even  in  its 
gentlest  moods  the  salt  sea  travails,  moaning  among  the 
weeds  or  lisping  on  the  sand;  but  that  vast  fog  ocean  lay 
in  a  trance  of  silence,  nor  did  the  sweet  air  of  the  morn- 
ing tremble  with  a  sound. 

As  I  continued  to  sit  upon  the  dump,  I  began  to  ob- 
serve that  this  sea  was  not  so  level  as  at  first  sight  it 
appeared  to  be.  Away  in  the  extreme  south,  a  little  hill 
of  fog  arose  against  the  sky  above  the  general  surface, 
and  as  it  had  already  caught  the  sun,  it  shone  on  the 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  127 

horizon  like  the  topsails  of  some  giant  ship.  There  were 
huge  waves,  stationary,  as  it  seemed,  like  waves  in  a 
frozen  sea;  and  yet,  as  I  looked  again,  I  was  not  sure 
but  they  were  moving  after  all,  with  a  slow  and  august 
advance.  And  while  I  was  yet  doubting,  a  promontory 
of  the  hills  some  four  or  five  miles  away,  conspicuous  by 
a  bouquet  of  tall  pines,  was  in  a  single  instant  overtaken 
and  swallowed  up.  It  reappeared  in  a  little,  with  its 
pines,  but  this  time  as  an  islet,  and  only  to  be  swallowed 
up  once  more  and  then  for  good.  This  set  me  looking 
nearer,  and  I  saw  that  in  every  cove  along  the  line  of 
mountains  the  fog  was  being  piled  in  higher  and  higher, 
as  though  by  some  wind  that  was  inaudible  to  me.  I 
could  trace  its  progress,  one  pine-tree  first  growing  hazy 
and  then  disappearing  after  another;  although  some- 
tunes  there  was  none  of  this  forerunning  haze,  but  the 
whole  opaque  white  ocean  gave  a  start  and  swallowed  a 
piece  of  mountain  at  a  gulp.  It  was  to  flee  these  poison- 
ous fogs  that  I  had  left  the  seaboard,  and  climbed  so  high 
among  the  mountains.  And  now,  behold,  here  came  the 
fog  to  besiege  me  in  my  chosen  altitudes,  and  yet  came 
so  beautifully  that  my  first  thought  was  of  welcome. 

The  sun  had  now  gotten  much  higher,  and  through  all 
the  gaps  of  the  hills  it  cast  long  bars  of  gold  across  that 
white  ocean.  An  eagle,  or  some  other  very  great  bird 
of  the  mountain,  came  wheeling  over  the  nearer  pine 
tops,  and  hung,  poised  and  something  sideways,  as  if  to 
look  abroad  on  that  unwonted  desolation,  spying,  per- 
haps with  terror,  for  the  aeries  of  her  comrades.  Then, 
with  a  long  cry,  she  disappeared  again  toward  Lake 
County  and  the  clearer  air.  At  length  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  the  flood  were  beginning  to  subside.  The  old  land- 
marks, by  whose  disappearance  I  had  measured  its  ad- 
vance, here  a  crag,  there  a  brave  pine-tree,  now  began, 
in  the  inverse  order,  to  make  their  reappearance  into 


128  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

daylight.  I  judged  all  danger  of  the  fog  was  over.  This 
was  not  Noah's  flood;  it  was  but  a  morning  spring,  and 
would  now  drift  out  seaward  whence  it  came.  So,  mightily 
relieved,  and  a  good  deal  exhilarated  by  the  sight,  I  went 
into  the  house  to  light  the  fire. 

I  suppose  it  was  nearly  seven  when  I  once  more  mounted 
the  platform  to  look  abroad.  The  fog  ocean  had  swelled 
up  enormously  since  last  I  saw  it;  and  a  few  hundred  feet 
below  me,  in  the  deep  gap  where  the  Toll  House  stands 
and  the  road  runs  through  into  La,ke  County,  it  had  al- 
ready topped  the  slope,  and  was  pouring  over  and  down 
the  other  side  like  driving  smoke.  The  wind  had  climbed 
along  with  it;  and  though  I  was  still  in  calm  air,  I  could 
see  the  trees  tossing  below  me,  and  their  long,  strident 
sighing  mounted  to  me  where  I  stood. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  fog  had  surmounted  all  the 
ridge  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gap,  though  a  shoulder 
of  the  mountain  still  warded  it  out  of  our  canyon.  Napa 
Valley  and  its  bounding  hills  were  now  utterly  blotted 
out.  The  fog,  sunny-white  in  the  sunshine,  was  pouring 
over  into  Lake  County  in  a  huge,  ragged  cataract,  tossing 
tree  tops  appearing  and  disappearing  in  the  spray.  The 
air  struck  with  a  little  chill,  and  set  me  coughing.  It 
smelled  strong  of  the  fog,  like  the  smell  of  a  washing-house, 
but  with  a  shrewd  tang  of  the  sea  salt. 

Had  it  not  been  for  two  things — the  sheltering  spur 
which  answered  as  a  dike,  and  the  great  valley  on  the 
other  side  which  rapidly  engulfed  whatever  mounted — 
our  own  little  platform  in  the  canyon  must  have  been 
already  buried  a  hundred  feet  in  salt  and  poisonous  air. 
As  it  was,  the  interest  of  the  scene  entirely  occupied  our 
minds.  We  were  set  just  out  of  the  wind,  and  but  just 
above  the  fog;  we  could  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  one  as 
to  music  on  the  stage;  we  could  plunge  our  eyes  down 
into  the  other,  as  into  some  flowing  stream  from  over  the 
parapet  of  a  bridge;  thus  we  looked  on  upon  a  strange, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  129 

impetuous,  silent,  shifting  exhibition  of  the  powers  of 
nature,  and  saw  the  familiar  landscape  changing  from 
moment  to  moment  like  figures  in  a  dream. 

The  imagination  loves  to  trifle  with  what  is  not.  Had 
this  been  indeed  the  deluge,  I  should  have  felt  more 
strongly,  but  the  emotion  would  have  been  similar  in 
kind.  I  played  with  the  idea,  as  the  child  flees  in  de- 
lighted terror  from  the  creations  of  his  fancy.  The  look 
of  the  thing  helped  me.  And  when  at  last  I  began  to 
flee  up  the  mountain,  it  was  indeed  partly  to  escape  from 
the  raw  air  that  kept  me  coughing,  but  it  was  also  part 
in  play. 

As  I  ascended  the  mountainside,  I  came  once  more  to 
overlook  the  upper  surface  of  the  fog;  but  it  wore  a  dif- 
ferent appearance  from  what  I  had  beheld  at  daybreak. 
For,  first,  the  sun  now  fell  on  it  from  high  overhead,  and 
its  surface  shone  and  undulated  like  a  great  norland 
moor  country,  sheeted  with  untrodden  morning  snow. 
And  next  the  new  level  must  have  been  a  thousand  or 
fifteen  hundred  feet  higher  than  the  old,  so  that  only 
five  or  six  points  of  all  the  broken  country  below  me,  still 
stood  out.  Napa  Valley  was  now  one  with  Sonoma  on 
the  west.  On  the  hither  side,  only  a  thin  scattered  fringe 
of  bluffs  was  unsubmerged;  and  through  all  the  gaps  the 
fog  was  pouring  over,  like  an  ocean,  into  the  blue  clear 
sunny  country  on  the  east.  There  it  was  soon  lost;  for 
it  fell  instantly  into  the  bottom  of  the  valleys,  following 
the  watershed;  and  the  hilltops  in  that  quarter  were  still 
clear  cut  upon  the  eastern  sky. 

Through  the  Toll  House  gap  and  over  the  near  ridges 
on  the  other  side,  the  deluge  was  immense.  A  spray  of 
thin  vapor  was  thrown  high  above  it,  rising  and  falling, 
and  blown  into  fantastic  shapes.  The  speed  of  its  course 
was  like  a  mountain  torrent.  Here  and  there  a  few  tree 
tops  were  discovered  and  then  whelmed  again;  and  for 
one  second,  the  bough  of  a  dead  pine  beckoned  out  of  the 


130  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

spray  like  the  arm  of  a  drowning  man.  But  still  the 
imagination  was  dissatisfied,  still  the  ear  waited  for  some- 
thing more.  Had  this  indeed  been  water  (as  it  seemed 
so,  to  the  eye),  with  what  a  plunge  of  reverberating  thun- 
der would  it  have  rolled  upon  its  course,  disembowelling 
mountains  and  deracinating  pines!  And  yet  water  it 
was,  and  sea-water  at  that — true  Pacific  billows,  only 
somewhat  rarefied,  rolling  in  mid  air  among  the  hilltops. 

I  climbed  still  higher,  among  the  red  rattling  gravel 
and  dwarf  underwood  of  Mount  Saint  Helena,  until  I 
could  look  right  down  upon  Silverado,  and  admire  the 
favored  nook  in  which  it  lay.  The  sunny  plain  of  fog 
was  several  hundred  feet  higher;  behind  the  protecting 
spur  a  gigantic  accumulation  of  cottony  vapor  threat- 
ened, with  every  second,  to  blow  over  and  submerge  our 
homestead;  but  the  vortex  setting  past  the  Toll  House 
was  too  strong;  and  there  lay  our  little  platform,  in  the 
arms  of  the  deluge,  but  still  enjoying  its  unbroken  sun- 
shine. About  eleven,  however,  thin  spray  came  flying 
over  the  friendly  buttress,  and  I  began  to  think  the  fog 
had  hunted  out  its  Jonah  after  all.  But  it  was  the  last 
effort.  The  wind  veered  while  we  were  at  dinner,  and 
began  to  blow  squally  from  the  mountain  summit;  and 
by  half-past  one,  all  that  world  of  sea  fogs  was  utterly 
routed  and  flying  here  and  there  into  the  south  in  little 
rags  of  cloud.  And  instead  of  a  lone  sea  beach,  we  found 
ourselves  once  more  inhabiting  a  high  mountainside, 
with  the  clear  green  country  far  below  us,  and  the  light 
smoke  of  Calistoga  blowing  in  the  air. 

This  was  the  great  Russian  campaign  for  that  season. 
Now  and  then,  in  the  early  morning,  a  little  white  lakelet 
of  fog  would  be  seen  far  down  in  Napa  Valley;  but  the 
heights  were  not  again  assailed,  nor  was  the  surrounding 
world  again  shut  off  from  Silverado. 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU 
BRUTE  NEIGHBORS 


Henry  David  Thoreau  (1817-1862)  was  one  of  the  most 
original  figures  in  American  literature.  He  was  born  at 
Concord,  Mass.,  a  neighbor  of  Emerson's,  and  educated 
at  Harvard.  His  father  was  a  manufacturer  of  lead- 
pencils.  Henry  worked  with  him,  and  so  improved  the 
process  that  he  turned  out  a  better  pencil  than  had  ever 
been  produced  before.  His  neighbors  congratulated  him, 
telling  him  that  his  fortune  was  made.  But  he  said  that 
he  would  never  make  another  pencil.  "Why  should  I? 
I  would  not  do  again  what  I  have  done  once."  The 
remark  was  characteristic  of  Thoreau;  he  was  not  con- 
cerned with  making  money,  but  with  living  according  to 
his  own  ideas.  He  had  some  skill  as  a  carpenter  and  as 
a  surveyor;  he  would  work  at  these  occupations  occa- 
sionally— the  rest  of  his  days  he  spent  in  reading,  writing, 
and  observing  nature.  Wishing  to  spend  some  time  in 
solitude,  he  built  a  hut  on  the  shore  of  Walden  pond,  near 
Concord,  and  lived  there  alone  for  two  years.  The  record 
of  this  experience  is  given  in  Walden,  or  Life  in  the  Woods, 
from  which  the  chapter  here  printed  is  taken.  In  addition 
to  Walden,  he  wrote  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimac 
Rivers;  Excursions;  and  Cape  Cod.  His  Journals  have 
been  published  in  several  volumes.  All  of  his  books  are 
made  up  of  descriptions  of  what  he  saw,  observed  with 
the  trained  eye  of  a  naturalist,  and  set  down  with  the 
pen  of  a  poet.  To  these  descriptions  he  adds  his  own 
reflections  upon  men  and  things. 


HENRY  D.   THOREAU 

BRUTE  NEIGHBORS 

(From  Walden,  or  Life  in  the  Woods') 

Why  do  precisely  these  objects  which  we  behold  make 
a  world?  Why  has  man  just  these  species  of  animals  for 
his  neighbors;  as  if  nothing  but  a  mouse  could  have  filled 
this  crevice?  I  suspect  that  Pilpay*  and  Co.  have  put 
animals  to  their  best  use,  for  they  are  all  beasts  of  bur- 
den, in  a  sense,  made  to  carry  some  portion  of  our  thoughts. 

The  mice  which  haunted  my  house  were  not  the  com- 
mon ones,  which  are  said  to  have  been  introduced  into 
the  country,  but  a  wild  native  kind  not  found  in  the  vil- 
lage. I  sent  one  to  a  distinguished  naturalist,  and  it 
interested  him  much.  When  I  was  building,  one  of  these 
had  its  nest  underneath  the  house,  and  before  I  had  laid 
the  second  floor,  and  swept  out  the  shavings,  would  come 
out  regularly  at  lunch  time  and  pick  up  the  crumbs  at 
my  feet.  It  probably  had  never  seen  a  man  before;  and 
it  soon  became  quite  familiar,  and  would  run  over  my 
shoes  and  up  my  clothes.  It  could  readily  ascend  the 
sides  of  the  room  by  short  impulses,  like  a  squirrel,  which 
it  resembled  in  its  motions.  At  length,  as  I  leaned  with 
my  elbow  on  the  bench  one  day,  it  ran  up  my  clothes, 
and  along  my  sleeve,  and  round  and  round  the  paper 
which  held  my  dinner,  while  I  kept  the  latter  close,  and 
dodged  and  played  at  bo-peep  with  it;  and  when  at  last 
I  held  still  a  piece  of  cheese  between  my  thumb  and  finger, 

*  Pilpay.  The  Fables  of  Pilpay  is  an  ancient  work,  originally 
written  in  Sanskrit.  It  is  a  series  of  stories  about  animals,  each  story 
teaching  a  lesson. 

133 


134  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

it  came  and  nibbled  it,  sitting  in  my  hand,  and  afterward 
cleaned  its  face  and  paws,  like  a  fly,  and  walked  away. 

A  phoebe  soon  built  in  my  shed,  and  a  robin  for  pro- 
tection in  a  pine  which  grew  against  the  house.  In  June 
the  partridge  (Tetrao  umbellus),  which  is  so  shy  a  bird, 
led  her  brood  past  my  windows,  from  the  woods  in  the 
rear  to  the  front  of  my  house,  clucking  and  calling  to 
them  like  a  hen,  and  in  all  her  behavior  proving  herself 
the  hen  of  the  woods.  The  young  suddenly  disperse  on 
your  approach,  at  a  signal  from  the  mother,  as  if  a  whirl- 
wind had  swept  them  away,  and  they  so  exactly  resem- 
ble the  dried  leaves  and  twigs  that  many  a  traveller  has 
placed  his  foot  in  the  midst  of  a  brood,  and  heard  the 
whirr  of  the  old  bird  as  she  flew  off,  and  her  anxious  calls 
and  mewing,  or  seen  her  trail  her  wings  to  attract  his 
attention,  without  suspecting  their  neighborhood.  The 
parent  will  sometimes  roll  and  spin  round  before  you  in 
such  a  dishabille,  that  you  cannot,  for  a  few  moments, 
detect  what  kind  of  a  creature  it  is.  The  young  squat 
still  and  flat,  often  running  their  heads  under  a  leaf,  and 
mind  only  their  mother's  directions  given  from  a  distance, 
nor  will  your  approach  make  them  run  again  and  betray 
themselves.  You  may  even  tread  on  them,  or  have  youi 
eyes  on  them  for  a  minute,  without  discovering  them.  I 
have  held  them  in  my  open  hand  at  such  a  time,  and 
still  their  only  care,  obedient  to  their  mother  and  their 
instinct,  was  to  squat  there  without  fear  or  trembling. 
So  perfect  is  this  instinct,  that  once,  when  I  had  laid 
them  on  the  leaves  again,  and  one  accidentally  fell  on 
its  side,  it  was  found  with  the  rest  in  exactly  the  same 
position  ten  minutes  afterward.  They  are  not  callow 
like  the  young  of  most  birds,  but  more  perfectly  devel- 
oped and  precocious  even  than  chickens. 

The  remarkably  adult  yet  innocent  expression  of  their 
open  and  serene  eyes  is  very  memorable.  All  intelligence 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU  135 

seems  reflected  in  them.  They  suggest  not  merely  the 
purity  of  infancy,  but  a  wisdom  clarified  by  experience. 
Such  an  eye  was  not  born  when  the  bird  was,  but  is  coeval 
with  the  sky  it  reflects.  The  woods  do  not  yield  another 
such  a  gem.  The  traveller  does  not  often  look  into  such 
a  limpid  well.  The  ignorant  or  reckless  sportsman  often 
shoots  the  parent  at  such  a  time,  and  leaves  these  inno- 
cents to  fall  a  prey  to  some  prowling  beast  or  bird,  or 
gradually  mingle  with  the  decaying  leaves  which  they 
so  much  resemble.  It  is  said  that  when  hatched  by  a 
hen  they  will  directly  disperse  on  some  alarm,  and  so  are 
lost,  for  they  never  hear  the  mother's  call  which  gathers 
them  again.  These  were  my  hens  and  chickens. 

It  is  remarkable  how  many  creatures  live  wild  and  free 
though  secret  in  the  woods,  and  still  sustain  themselves 
in  the  neighborhood  of  towns,  suspected  by  hunters  only. 
How  retired  the  otto  manages  to  live  here!  He  grows 
to  be  four  feet  long,  as  big  as  a  small  boy,  perhaps  with- 
out any  human  being  getting  a  glimpse  of  him.  I  for- 
merly saw  the  raccoon  in  the  woods  behind  where  my 
house  is  built,  and  probably  still  heard  their  whinnering 
at  night.  Commonly  I  rested  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
shade  at  noon,  after  planting,  and  ate  my  lunch,  and  read 
a  little  by  a  spring  which  was  the  source  of  a  swamp  and 
of  a  brook,  oozing  from  under  Brister's  Hill,  half  a  mile 
from  my  field.  The  approach  to  this  was  through  a  suc- 
cession of  descending  grassy  hollows,  full  of  young  pitch- 
pines,  into  a  larger  wood  about  the  swamp.  There,  in  a 
very  secluded  and  shaded  spot,  under  a  spreading  white 
pine,  there  was  yet  a  clean  firm  sward  to  sit  on.  I  had 
dug  out  the  spring,  and  made  a  well  of  clear  gray  water, 
where  I  could  dip  up  a  pailful  without  roiling  it,  and 
thither  I  went  for  this  purpose  almost  every  day  in  mid- 
summer, when  the  pond  was  warmest.  Thither  too  the 
woodcock  led  her  brood,  to  probe  the  mud  for  worms, 


136  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

flying  but  a  foot  above  them  down  the  bank,  while  they 
ran  in  a  troop  beneath;  but  at  last,  spying  me,  she  would 
leave  her  young  and  circle  round  and  round  me,  nearer 
and  nearer  till  within  four  or  five  feet,  pretending  broken 
wings  and  legs,  to  attract  my  attention,  and  get  off  her 
young,  who  would  already  have  taken  up  their  march, 
with  faint  wiry  peep,  single  file  through  the  swamp,  as 
she  directed.  Or  I  heard  the  peep  of  the  young  when  I 
could  not  see  the  parent  bird.  There  too  the  turtle-doves 
sat  over  the  spring,  or  fluttered  from  bough  to  bough  of 
the  soft  white  pines  over  my  head;  or  the  red  squirrel, 
coursing  down  the  nearest  bough,  was  particularly  fa- 
miliar and  inquisitive.  You  only  need  sit  still  long 
enough  in  some  attractive  spot  in  the  woods  that  all  its 
inhabitants  may  exhibit  themselves  to  you  by  turns. 

I  was  witness  to  events  of  a  less  peaceful  character. 
One  day  when  I  went  out  to  my  wood-pile,  or  rather  my 
pile  of  stumps,  I  observed  two  large  ants,  the  one  red, 
the  other  much  larger,  nearly  half  an  inch  long,  and 
black,  fiercely  contending  with  one  another.  Having 
once  got  hold  they  never  let  go,  but  struggled  and  wrestled 
and  rolled  on  the  chips  incessantly.  Looking  farther,  I 
was  surprised  to  find  that  the  chips  were  covered  with 
such  combatants,  that  it  was  not  a  duellum,  but  a  bellum, 
a  war  between  two  races  of  ants,  the  red  always  pitted 
against  the  black,  and  frequently  two  red  ones  to  one 
black.  The  legions  of  these  Myrmidons  covered  all  the 
hills  and  vales  in  my  wood-yard,  and  the  ground  was 
already  strewn  with  the  dead  and  dying,  both  red  and 
black.  It  was  the  only  battle  which  I  have  ever  wit- 
nessed, the  only  battle-field  I  ever  trod  while  the  battle 
was  raging;  internecine  war;  the  red  republicans  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  black  imperialists  on  the  other.  On 
every  side  they  were  engaged  in  deadly  combat,  yet  with- 
out any  noise  that  I  could  hear,  and  human  soldiers  never 


HENRY  D.   THOREAU  137 

fought  so  resolutely.  I  watched  a  couple  that  were  fast 
locked  in  each  other's  embraces,  in  a  little  sunny  valley 
amid  the  chips,  now  at  noonday  prepared  to  fight  till 
the  sun  went  down,  or  life  went  out.  The  smaller  red 
champion  had  fastened  himself  like  a  vise  to  his  adver- 
sary's front,  and  through  all  the  tumblings  on  that  field 
never  for  an  instant  ceased  to  gnaw  at  one  of  his  feelers 
near  the  root,  having  already  caused  the  other  to  go  by 
the  board;  while  the  stronger  black  one  dashed  him  from 
side  to  side,  and  as  I  saw  on  looking  nearer,  had  already 
divested  him  of  several  of  his  members.  They  fought 
with  more  pertinacity  than  bulldogs.  Neither  mani- 
fested the  least  disposition  to  retreat.  It  was  evident 
that  their  battle-cry  was  Conquer  or  die. 

In  the  meanwhile  there  came  along  a  single  red  ant  on 
the  hillside  of  this  valley,  evidently  full  of  excitement, 
who  either  had  despatched  his  foe,  or  had  not  yet  taken 
part  in  the  battle;  probably  the  latter,  for  he  had  lost  none 
of  his  limbs;  whose  mother  had  charged  him  to  return 
with  his  shield  or  upon  it.  Or  perchance  he  was  some 
Achilles,  who  had  nourished  his  wrath  apart,  and  had 
now  come  to  avenge  or  rescue  his  Patroclus.  He  saw 
this  unequal  combat  from  afar — for  the  blacks  were  nearly 
twice  the  size  of  the  red— he  drew  near  with  rapid  pace 
till  he  stood  on  his  guard  within  half  an  inch  of  the  com- 
batants; then,  watching  his  opportunity,  he  sprang  upon 
the  black  warrior,  and  commenced  his  operations  near 
the  root  of  his  right  fore-leg,  leaving  the  foe  to  select 
among  his  own  members;  and  so  there  were  three  united 
for  life,  as  if  a  new  kind  of  attraction  had  been  invented 
which  put  all  other  locks  and  cements  to  shame.  I  should 
not  have  wondered  by  this  time  to  find  that  they  had 
their  respective  musical  bands  stationed  on  some  emi- 
nent chip,  and  playing  their  national  airs  the  while,  to 
excite  the  slow  and  cheer  the  dying  combatants.  I  was 


138  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

myself  excited  somewhat  even  as  if  they  had  been  men. 
The  more  you  think  of  it,  the  less  the  difference.  And 
certainly  there  is  not  a  fight  recorded  in  Concord  history, 
at  least,  if  in  the  history  of  America,  that  will  bear  a  mo- 
ment's comparison  with  this,  whether  for  the  numbers 
engaged  in  it,  or  for  the  patriotism  and  heroism  displayed. 
For  numbers  and  for  carnage  it  was  an  Austerlitz  or  Dres- 
den. Concord  Fight!  Two  killed  on  the  patriots'  side, 
and  Luther  Blanchard  wounded!  Why  here  every  ant 
was  a  Buttrick, — "Fire  !  for  God's  sake,  fire  !" — and  thou- 
sands shared  the  fate  of  Davis  and  Hosmer.  There  was 
not  one  hireling  there.  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  a 
principle  they  fought  for,  as  much  as  our  ancestors,  and 
not  to  avoid  a  three-penny  tax  on  their  tea;  and  the  re- 
sults of  this  battle  will  be  as  important  and  memorable 
to  those  whom  it  concerns  as  those  of  the  battle  of  Bun- 
ker Hill,  at  least. 

I  took  up  the  chip  on  which  the  three  I  have  particu- 
larly described  were  struggling,  carried  it  into  my  house, 
and  placed  it  under  a  tumbler  on  my  window-sill,  in  order 
to  see  the  issue.  Holding  a  microscope  to  the  first- 
mentioned  red  ant,  1  saw  that,  though  he  was  assiduously 
gnawing  at  the  near  fore-leg  of  his  enemy,  having  severed 
his  remaining  feeler,  his  own  breast  was  all  torn  away, 
exposing  what  vitals  he  had  there  to  the  jaws  of  the  black 
warrior,  whose  breastplate  was  apparently  too  thick  for 
him  to  pierce;  and  the  dark  carbuncles  of  the  sufferer's 
eyes  shone  with  ferocity  such  as  war  only  could  excite. 
They  struggled  half  an  hour  longer  under  the  tumbler, 
and  when  I  looked  again  the  black  soldier  had  severed 
the  heads  of  his  foes  from  their  bodies,  and  the  still  living 
heads  were  hanging  on  either  side  of  him  like  ghastly 
trophies  at  his  saddle-bow,  still  apparently  as  firmly 
fastened  as  ever,  and  he  was  endeavoring  with  feeble 
struggles,  being  without  feelers  and  with  only  the  remnant 


HENRY  D.   THOREAU  139 

of  a  leg,  and  I  know  not  how  many  other  wounds,  to 
divest  himself  of  them;  which  at  length,  after  half  an 
hour  more,  he  accomplished.  I  raised  the  glass,  and  he 
went  off  over  the  window-sill  in  that  crippled  state. 
Whether  he  finally  survived  that  combat,  and  spent  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  some  Hotel  des  Invalides,  I  do 
not  know;  but  I  thought  that  his  industry  would  not  be 
worth  much  thereafter.  I  never  learned  which  party 
was  victorious,  nor  the  cause  of  the  war:  but  I  felt  for 
the  rest  of  that  day  as  if  I  had  had  my  feelings  excited 
and  harrowed  by  witnessing  the  struggle,  the  ferocity 
and  carnage,  of  a  human  battle  before  my  door. 

Kirby  and  Spence  tell  us  that  the  battles  of  ants  have 
long  been  celebrated  and  the  date  of  them  recorded, 
though  they  say  that  Huber  is  the  only  modern  author 
who  appears  to  have  witnessed  them.  "^Eneas  Sylvius," 
say  they,  "after  giving  a  very  circumstantial  account  of 
one  contested  with  great  obstinacy  by  a  great  and  small 
species  on  the  trunk  of  a  pear-tree,"  adds  that,  '"This 
action  was  fought  in  the  pontificate  of  Eugenius  the 
Fourth,  in  the  presence  of  Nicholas  Pistoriensis,  an  emi- 
nent lawyer,  who  related  the  whole  history  of  the  battle 
with  the  greatest  fidelity.'  A  similar  engagement  be- 
tween great  and  small  ants  is  recorded  by  Olaus  Magnus, 
in  which  the  small  ones,  being  victorious,  are  said  to  have 
buried  the  bodies  of  their  own  soldiers,  but  left  those  of 
their  giant  enemies  a  prey  to  the  birds.  This  event  hap- 
pened previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the  tyrant  Christiern 
the  Second  from  Sweden."  The  battle  which  I  witnessed 
took  place  in  the  Presidency  of  Polk,  five  years  before 
the  passage  of  Webster's  Fugitive-Slave  Bill. 

Many  a  village  Bose,*  fit  only  to  course  a  mud-turtle 
in  a  victualling  cellar,  sported  his  heavy  quarters  in  the 
woods,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  master,  and  ineffec- 
*  Bose,  a  nickname  for  a  dog. 


140  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

tually  smelled  at  old  fox  burrows  and  woodchucks'  holes; 
led  perchance  by  some  slight  cur  which  nimbly  threaded 
the  wood,  and  might  still  inspire  a  natural  terror  in  its 
denizens; — now  far  behind  his  guide,  barking  like  a 
canine  bull  toward  some  small  squirrel  which  had  treed 
itself  for  scrutiny,  then,  cantering  off,  bending  the  bushes 
with  his  weight,  imagining  that  he  is  on  the  track  of  some 
stray  member  of  the  jerbilla*  family. 

Once  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  cat  walking  along  the 
stony  shore  of  the  pond,  for  they  rarely  wander  so  far 
from  home.  The  surprise  was  mutual.  Nevertheless  the 
most  domestic  cat,  which  has  lain  on  a  rug  all  her  days, 
appears  quite  at  home  in  the  woods,  and,  by  her  sly  and 
stealthy  behavior,  proves  herself  more  native  there  than 
the  regular  inhabitants.  Once,  when  berrying,  I  met  a 
cat  with  young  kittens  in  the  woods,  quite  wild,  and  they 
all,  like  their  mother,  had  their  backs  up  and  were  fiercely 
spitting  at  me.  A  few  years  before  I  lived  in  the  woods 
there  was  what  was  called  a  "winged  cat"  in  one  of  the 
farmhouses  in  Lincoln  nearest  the  pond,  Mr.  Gilian 
Baker's.  When  I  called  to  see  her  in  June,  1842,  she 
was  gone  a-hunting  in  the  woods,  as  was  her  wont  (I  am 
not  sure  whether  it  was  a  male  or  female,  and  so  use  the 
more  common  pronoun),  but  her  mistress  told  me  that 
she  came  into  the  neighborhood  a  little  more  than  a  year 
before,  in  April,  and  was  finally  taken  into  their  house; 
that  she  was  of  a  dark  brownish-gray  color,  with  a  white 
spot  on  her  throat,  and  white  feet,  and  had  a  large  bushy 
tail  like  a  fox;  that  in  the  winter  the  fur  grew  thick  and 
flatted  out  along  her  sides,  forming  stripes  ten  or  twelve 
inches  long  by  two  and  a  half  wide,  and  under  her  chin 
like  a  muff,  the  upper  side  loose,  the  under  matted  like 
felt,  and  in  the  spring  these  appendages  dropped  off.  They 

*  Jerbilla,  or  jerboa,  a  mouse  or  rat  with  a  pouch;  the  kangaroo 
rat  is  an  example. 


HENRY  D.   THOREAU  141 

gave  me  a  pair  of  her  "wings,"  which  I  keep  still.  Thero 
is  no  appearance  of  a  membrane  about  them.  Some 
thought  it  was  part  flying-squirrel  or  some  other  wild 
animal,  which  is  not  impossible,  for,  according  to  natural- 
ists, prolific  hybrids  have  been  produced  by  the  union  of 
the  marten  and  domestic  cat.  This  would  have  been  the 
right  kind  of  cat  for  me  to  keep,  if  I  had  kept  any;  for 
why  should  not  a  poet's  cat  be  winged  as  well  as  his 
horse  ? 

In  the  fall  the  loon  (Colymbus  glacialis)  came,  as  usual, 
to  moult  and  bathe  in  the  pond,  making  the  woods  ring 
with  his  wild  laughter  before  I  had  risen.  At  rumor  of 
his  arrival  all  the  Mill-dam  sportsmen  are  on  the  alert, 
in  gigs  and  on  foot,  two  by  two  and  three  by  three,  with 
patent  rifles  and  conical  balls  and  spy-glasses.  They 
come  rustling  through  the  woods  like  autumn  leaves,  at 
least  ten  men  to  one  loon.  Some  station  themselves  on 
this  side  of  the  pond,  some  on  that,  for  the  poor  bird 
cannot  be  omnipresent;  if  he  dive  here  he  must  come  up 
there.  But  now  the  kind  October  wind  rises,  rustling  the 
leaves  and  rippling  the  surface  of  the  water,  so  that  no 
loon  can  be  heard  or  seen,  though  his  foes  sweep  the  pond 
with  spy-glasses,  and  make  the  woods  resound  with  their 
discharges.  The  waves  generously  rise  and  dash  angrily, 
taking  sides  with  all  water-fowl,  and  our  sportsmen  must 
beat  a  retreat  to  town,  and  shop,  and  unfinished  jobs. 
But  they  were  too  often  successful.  When  I  went  to 
get  a  pail  of  water  early  in  the  morning  I  frequently  saw 
this  stately  bird  sailing  out  of  my  cove  within  a  few  rods. 
If  I  endeavored  to  overtake  him  in  a  boat,  in  order  to 
see  how  he  would  manoeuvre,  he  would  dive  and  be  com- 
pletely lost,  so  that  I  did  not  discover  him  again,  some- 
times, till  the  latter  part  of  the  day.  But  I  was  more 
than  a  match  for  him  on  the  surface.  He  commonly  went 
off  in  a  rain. 


142  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

As  I  was  paddling  along  the  north  shore  one  very  calm 
October  afternoon,  for  such  days  especially  they  settle 
on  to  the  lakes,  like  the  milkweed  down,  having  looked 
in  vain  over  the  pond  for  a  loon,  suddenly  one,  sailing  out 
from  the  shore  toward  the  middle  a  few  rods  in  front  of 
me,  set  up  his  wild  laugh  and  betrayed  himself.  I  pur- 
sued with  a  paddle  and  he  dived,  but  when  he  came  up 
I  was  nearer  than  before.  He  dived  again,  but  I  mis- 
calculated the  direction  he  would  take,  and  we  were  fifty 
rods  apart  when  he  came  to  the  surface  this  time,  for  I 
had  helped  to  widen  the  interval;  and  again  he  laughed 
loud  and  long,  and  with  more  reason  than  before.  He 
manoeuvred  so  cunningly  that  I  could  not  get  within 
half  a  dozen  rods  of  him.  Each  time,  when  he  came  to  the 
surface,  turning  his  head  this  way  and  that,  he  coolly 
surveyed  the  water  and  the  land,  and  apparently  chose 
his  course  so  that  he  might  come  up  where  there  was  the 
widest  expanse  of  water  and  at  the  greatest  distance  from 
the  boat.  It  was  surprising  how  quickly  he  made  up  his 
mind  and  put  his  resolve  into  execution.  He  led  me  at 
once  to  the  widest  part  of  the  pond,  and  could  not  be 
driven  from  it.  While  he  was  thinking  one  thing  in  his 
brain,  I  was  endeavoring  to  divine  his  thought  in  mine. 
It  was  a  pretty  game,  played  on  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  pond,  a  man  against  a  loon.  Suddenly  your  adver- 
sary's checker  disappears  beneath  the  board,  and  the 
problem  is  to  place  yours  nearest  to  where  his  will  appear 
again.  Sometimes  he  would  come  up  unexpectedly  on 
the  opposite  side  of  me,  having  apparently  passed  directly 
under  the  boat.  So  long-winded  was  he  and  so  unweari- 
able,  that  when  he  had  swum  farthest  he  would  immedi- 
ately plunge  again,  nevertheless;  and  then  no  wit  could 
divine  where  in  the  deep  pond,  beneath  the  smooth  sur- 
face, he  might  be  speeding  his  way  like  a  fish,  for  he  had 
time  and  ability  to  visit  the  bottom  of  the  pond  in  its 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU  143 

deepest  part.  It  is  said  that  loons  have  been  caught  in 
the  New  York  lakes  eighty  feet  beneath  the  surface,  with 
hooks  set  for  trout, — though  Walden  is  deeper  than  that. 
How  surprised  must  the  fishes  be  to  see  this  ungainly 
visitor  from  another  sphere  speeding  his  way  amid  their 
schoolsjj  Yet  he  appeared  to  know  his  course  as  surely 
under  water  as  on  the  surface,  and  swam  much  faster 
there.  Once  or  twice  I  saw  a  ripple  where  he  approached 
the  surface,  just  put  his  head  out  to  reconnoitre,  and  in- 
stantly dived  again.  I  found  that  it  was  as  well  for  me 
to  rest  on  my  oars  and  wait  his  reappearing  as  to  en- 
deavor to  calculate  where  he  would  rise;  for  again  and 
again,  when  I  was  straining  my  eyes  over  the  surface  one 
way,  I  would  suddenly  be  startled  by  his  unearthly  laugh 
behind  me.  But  why,  after  displaying  so  much  cunning, 
did  he  invariably  betray  himself  the  moment  he  came  up 
by  that  loud  laugh?  Did  not  his  white  breast  enough 
betray  him?  He  was  indeed  a  silly  loon,  I  thought.  I 
could  commonly  hear  the  plash  of  the  water  when  he 
came  up,  and  so  also  detected  him.  But  after  an  hour 
he  seemed  as  fresh  as  ever,  dived  as  willingly,  and  swam 
yet  farther  than  at  first.  It  was  surprising  to  see  how 
serenely  he  sailed  off  with  unruffled  breast  when  he  came 
to  the  surface,  doing  all  the  work  with  his  webbed  feet 
beneath. 

His  usual  note  was  this  demoniac  laughter,  yet  some- 
what like  that  of  a  water-fowl;  but  occasionally,  when 
he  had  balked  me  most  successfully  and  come  up  a  long 
way  off,  he  muttered  a  long-drawn  unearthly  howl,  prob- 
ably more  like  that  of  a  wolf  than  any  bird;  as  when  a 
beast  puts  his  muzzle  to  the  ground  and  deliberately 
howls.  This  was  his  looning, — perhaps  the  wildest  sound 
that  is  ever  heard  here,  making  the  woods  ring  far  and 
wide.  I  concluded  that  he  laughed  in  derision  of  my  ef- 
forts, confident  of  his  own  resources.  Though  the  sky 


144  THE  DESCRIPTIVE  ESSAY 

was  by  this  time  overcast,  the  pond  was  so  smooth  that 
I  could  see  where  he  broke  the  surface  when  I  did  not 
hear  him.  His  white  breast,  the  stillness  of  the  air,  and 
the  smoothness  of  the  water  were  all  against  him.  At 
length,  having  come  up  fifty  rods  off,  he  uttered  one  of 
those  prolonged  howls,  as  if  calling  on  the  god  of  loons 
to  aid  him,  and  immediately  there  came  a  wind  from  the 
east  and  rippled  the  surface,  and  filled  the  whole  air  with 
misty  rain,  and  I  was  impressed  as  if  it  were  the  prayer 
of  the  loon  answered,  and  his  god  was  angry  with  me,  and 
so  I  left  him  disappearing  far  away  on  the  tumultuous 
surface. 

For  hours,  in  fall  days,  I  watched  the  ducks  cunningly 
tack  and  veer  and  hold  the  middle  of  the  pond,  far  from 
the  sportsman — tricks  which  they  will  have  less  need  to 
practise  in  Louisiana  bayous.  When  compelled  to  rise 
they  would  sometimes  circle  round  and  round  and  over 
the  pond  at  a  considerable  height,  from  which  they  could 
easily  see  to  other  ponds  and  the  river,  like  black  motes 
in  the  sky;  and,  when  I  thought  they  had  gone  off  thither 
long  since,  they  would  settle  down  by  a  slanting  flight 
of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  on  to  a  distant  part  which  was  left 
free;  but  what  beside  safety  they  got  by  sailing  in  the 
middle  of  Walden  I  do  not  know,  unless  they  love  its 
water  for  the  same  reason  that  I  do. 


THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

THE  MAN  IN  BLACK 


Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-1774)  was  one  of  the  important 
men  of  letters  of  the  eighteenth  century,  an  associate  of 
Addison,  Steele,  and  Johnson.  He  was  born  in  Ireland, 
the  son  of  a  poor  country  clergyman.  He  graduated  at 
Dublin  University  at  the  foot  of  his  class.  This  low  rank 
was  not  due  to  any  lack  of  ability,  but  rather  to  Gold- 
smith's happy-go-lucky  nature.  He  wandered  about 
Europe,  supposed  to  be  studying  medicine,  but  when  he 
set  up  practice  in  London  no  patients  came.  Then  he 
became  a  hack  writer,  producing  books  on  whatever 
subjects  the  publishers  desired.  For  a  newspaper  he 
wrote  a  series  of  essays  called  The  Citizen  of  the  World.  He 
is  best  remembered  as  the  author  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,  a  famous  novel  of  rural  life  in  England,  and  as  the 
author  of  a  comedy  which  yet  holds  the  stage,  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,  and  of  two  poems,  "The  Traveller"  and  "The 
Deserted  Village,"  which  are  in  almost  every  collection  of 
English  poetry. 

The  essay  here  printed  is  interesting  not  only  in  itself 
but  from  the  fact  that  the  character  here  sketched  is  a 
foreshadowing  of  the  famous  Doctor  Primrose  in  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield.  The  impulsive  generosity  of  the  Man  in 
Black,  his  inconsistency,  his  heart  quickly  moved  by  dis- 
tress,— all  these  were  characteristics  of  Goldsmith  him- 
self. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

THE  MAN  IN  BLACK 
(From  The  Citizen  of  the  World) 

Though  fond  of  many  acquaintances,  I  desire  an  in- 
timacy only  with  a  few.  The  Man  in  Black,  whom  I 
have  often  mentioned,  is  one  whose  friendship  I  could 
wish  to  acquire,  because  he  possesses  my  esteem.  His 
manners,  it  is  true,  are  tinctured  with  some  strange  in- 
consistencies; and  he  may  be  justly  termed  an  humorist 
in  a  nation  of  humorists.  Though  he  is  generous  even 
to  profusion,  he  affects  to  be  thought  a  prodigy  of  parsi- 
mony and  prudence;  though  his  conversation  be  replete 
with  the  most  sordid  and  selfish  maxims,  his  heart  is 
dilated  with  the  most  unbounded  love.  I  have  known 
him  profess  himself  a  man-hater,  while  his  cheek  was 
glowing  with  compassion;  and,  while  his  looks  were  sof- 
tened into  pity,  I  have  heard  him  use  the  language  of  the 
most  unbounded  ill-nature.  Some  affect  humanity  and 
tenderness,  others  boast  of  having  such  dispositions  from 
Nature;  but  he  is  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  seemed 
ashamed  of  his  natural  benevolence.  He  takes  as  much 
pains  to  hide  his  feelings,  as  any  hypocrite  would  to  con- 
ceal his  indifference;  but  on  every  unguarded  moment 
the  mask  drops  off,  and  reveals  him  to  the  most  super- 
ficial observer. 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country,  happen- 
ing to  discourse  upon  the  provision  that  was  made  for 
the  poor  in  England,  he  seemed  amazed  how  any  of  his 
countrymen  could  be  so  foolishly  weak  as  to  relieve  occa- 
sional objects  of  charity,  when  the  laws  had  made  such 

147 


148  THE   CHARACTER  SKETCH 

ample  provision  for  their  support.  "In  every  parish- 
house,"  says  he,  "the  poor  are  supplied  with  food,  clothes, 
fire,  and  a  bed  to  lie  on;  they  want  no  more,  I  desire  no 
more  myself;  yet  still  they  seem  discontented.  I'm  sur- 
prised at  the  inactivity  of  our  magistrates  in  not  taking 
up  such  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight  upon  the  indus- 
trious; I'm  surprised  that  the  people  are  found  to  relieve 
them,  when  they  must  be  at  the  same  time  sensible  that 
it,  in  some  measure,  encourages  idleness,  extravagance, 
and  imposture.  Were  I  to  advise  any  man  for  whom  I 
had  the  least  regard,  I  would  caution  him  by  all  means 
not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  their  false  pretenses:  let  me 
assure  you,  sir,  they  are  impostors,  every  one  of  them; 
and  rather  merit  a  prison  than  relief." 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain  earnestly,  to  dissuade 
me  from  an  imprudence  of  which  I  am  seldom  guilty, 
when  an  old  man,  who  still  had  about  him  the  remnants 
of  tattered  finery,  implored  our  compassion.  He  assured 
us  that  he  was  no  common  beggar,  but  forced  into  the 
shameful  profession  to  support  a  dying  wife  and  five 
hungry  children.  Being  prepossessed  against  such  false- 
hoods, his  story  had  not  the  least  influence  upon  me;  but 
it  was  quite  otherwise  with  the  Man  in  Black;  I  could  see 
it  visibly  operate  upon  his  countenance,  and  effectually  in- 
terrupt his  harangue.  I  could  easily  perceive  that  his 
heart  burned  to  relieve  the  five  starving  children,  but  he 
seemed  ashamed  to  discover  his  weakness  to  me.  While 
he  thus  hesitated  between  compassion  and  pride,  I  pre- 
tended to  look  another  way,  and  he  seized  this  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  the  poor  petitioner  a  piece  of  silver, 
bidding  him  at  the  same  time,  in  order  that  I  should  hear, 
go  work  for  his  bread,  and  not  tease  passengers  with  such 
impertinent  falsehoods  for  the  future. 

As  he  had  fancied  himself  quite  unperceived,  he  con- 
tinued, as  we  proceeded,  to  rail  against  beggars  with  as 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  149 

much  animosity  as  before;  he  threw  in  some  episodes  on 
his  own  amazing  prudence  and  economy,  with  his  pro- 
found skill  in  discovering  impostors;  he  explained  the 
manner  in  which  he  would  deal  with  beggars,  were  he  a 
magistrate,  hinted  at  enlarging  some  of  the  prisons  for 
their  reception,  and  told  two  stories  of  ladies  that  were 
robbed  by  beggarmen.  He  was  beginning  a  third  to  the 
same  purpose,  when  a  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  once  more 
crossed  our  walks,  desiring  our  pity,  and  blessing  our 
limbs.  I  was  for  going  on  without  taking  any  notice, 
but  my  friend,  looking  wistfully  upon  the  poor  petitioner, 
bade  me  stop,  and  he  would  show  me  with  how  much 
ease  he  could  at  any  time  detect  an  impostor. 

He  now,  therefore,  assumed  a  look  of  importance,  and 
in  an  angry  tone  began  to  examine  the  sailor,  demanding 
in  what  engagement  he  was  thus  disabled  and  rendered 
unfit  for  service.  The  sailor  replied  in  a  tone  as  angrily 
as  he,  that  he  had  been  an  officer  on  board  a  private  ship 
of  war,  and  that  he  had  lost  his  leg  abroad  in  defense  of 
those  who  did  nothing  at  home.  At  his  reply,  all  my 
friend's  importance  vanished  in  a  moment;  he  had  not  a 
single  question  more  to  ask;  he  now  only  studied  what 
method  he  should  take  to  relieve  him  unobserved.  He 
had,  however,  no  easy  part  to  act,  as  he  was  obliged  to 
preserve  the  appearance  of  ill-nature  before  me,  and  yet 
relieve  himself  by  relieving  the  sailor.  Casting,  there- 
fore, a  furious  look  upon  some  bundles  of  chips  which  the 
fellow  carried  in  a  string  at  his  back,  my  friend  demanded 
how  he  sold  his  matches;  but  not  waiting  for  a  reply,  de- 
sired in  a  surly  tone  to  have  a  shilling's  worth.  The  sailor 
seemed  at  first  surprised  at  his  demand,  but  soon  recol- 
lecting himself,  and  presenting  his  whole  bundle — "Here, 
master,"  says  he,  "take  all  my  cargo,  and  a  blessing  into 
the  bargain." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  with  what  an  air  of  triumph 


150  THE   CHARACTER  SKETCH 

my  friend  marched  off  with  his  new  purchase;  he  assured 
me  that  he  was  firmly  of  opinion  that  those  fellows  must 
have  stolen  their  goods  who  could  thus  afford  to  sell 
them  for  half  value.  He  informed  me  of  several  different 
uses  to  which  those  chips  might  be  applied;  he  expatiated 
largely  upon  the  savings  that  would  result  from  lighting 
candles  with  a  match  instead  of  thrusting  them  into  the 
fire.  He  averred  that  he  would  as  soon  have  parted 
with  a  tooth  as  his  money  to  those  vagabonds,  unless  for 
some  valuable  consideration.  I  cannot  tell  how  long  this 
panegyric  upon  frugality  and  matches  might  have  con- 
tinued, had  not  his  attention  been  called  off  by  another 
object  more  distressful  than  either  of  the  former.  A 
woman  in  rags,  with  one  child  in  her  arms,  and  another 
on  her  back,  was  attempting  to  sing  ballads,  but  with 
such  a  mournful  voice  that  it  was  difficult  to  determine 
whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  A  wretch  who  in 
the  deepest  distress  still  aimed  at  good-humor,  was  an 
object  my  friend  was  by  no  means  capable  of  withstand- 
ing; his  vivacity  and  his  discourse  were  instantly  inter- 
rupted; upon  this  occasion  his  very  dissimulation  had 
forsaken  him.  Even  in  my  presence,  he  immediately  ap- 
plied his  hands  to  his  pockets,  in  order  to  relieve  her;  but 
guess  his  confusion,  when  he  found  he  had  already  given 
away  all  the  money  he  carried  about  him  to  former  ob- 
jects. The  misery  painted  in  the  woman's  visage  was 
not  half  so  strongly  expressed  as  the  agony  in  his.  He 
continued  to  search  for  some  time,  but  to  no  purpose, 
till,  at  length,  recollecting  himself,  with  a  face  of  in- 
effable good-nature,  as  he  had  no  money,  he  put  into  her 
hands  his  shilling's  worth  of  matches. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 
THE  HUNTER'S  FAMILY 


The  following  essay,  like  the  one  on  The  Sea  Fogs, 
is  taken  from  The  Silverado  Squatters,  the  book  which 
records  the  life  of  the  Stevensons  in  the  mountains  of 
California.  His  frail  health  made  it  necessary  to  have 
some  assistance  in  their  cabin,  and  to  this  fact  we  owe  the 
minute  portrayal  of  the  two  men,  Irvine  and  Rufe.  As 
Irvine  loafed  about,  talking  boastfully  of  his  own  achieve- 
ments, he  little  imagined  that  every  attitude,  every  word, 
was  being  recorded  upon  a  mind  more  sensitive  than  any 
photographic  film,  so  that  not  only  his  image,  but  his  very 
self  would  be  set  forth  on  paper,  and  he  would  be  known 
to  men  in  distant  lands  and  other  times.  Such  is  the 
miracle  wrought  by  literature. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

THE  HUNTER'S  FAMILY 

(From  The  Silverado  Squatters) 

There  is  quite  a  large  race  or  class  of  people  in  America, 
for  whom  we  scarcely  seem  to  have  a  parallel  in  England. 
Of  pure  white  blood,  they  are  unknown  or  unrecognizable 
in  towns;  inhabit  the  fringe  of  settlements  and  the  deep, 
quiet  places  of  the  country;  rebellious  to  all  labor,  and 
pettily  thievish,  like  the  English  gypsies;  rustically  igno- 
rant, but  with  a  touch  of  wood  lore  and  the  dexterity  of 
the  savage.  Whence  they  came  is  a  moot  point.  At 
the  time  of  the  war,*  they  poured  north  in  crowds  to 
escape  the  conscription;  lived  during  summer  on  fruits, 
wild  animals,  and  petty  theft;  and  at  the  approach  of 
winter,  when  these  supplies  failed,  built  great  fires  in  the 
forest,  and  there  died  stoically  by  starvation.  They  are 
widely  scattered,  however,  and  easily  recognized.  Lout- 
ish, but  not  ill-looking,  they  will  sit  all  day,  swinging 
their  legs  on  a  field  fence,  the  mind  seemingly  as  devoid 
of  all  reflection  as  a  Suffolk  peasant's,  careless  of  politics, 
for  the  most  part  incapable  of  reading,  but  with  a  rebel- 
lious vanity  and  a  strong  sense  of  independence.  Hunt- 
ing is  their  most  congenial  business,  or,  if  the  occasion 
offers,  a  little  amateur  detection.  In  tracking  a  criminal, 
following  a  particular  horse  along  a  beaten  highway,  and 
drawing  inductions  from  a  hair  or  a  footprint,  one  of 
those  somnolent,  grinning  Hodges  will  suddenly  display 
activity  of  body  and  finesse  of  mind.  By  their  names  ye 
may  know  them,  the  women  figuring  as  Loveina,  Larsenia, 
Serena,  Leanna,  Orreana;  the  men  answering  to  Alvin, 
*  The  reference  is  to  the  Civil  War. 
153 


154  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

Alva,  or  Orion,  pronounced  Orion,  with  the  accent  on 
the  first.  Whether  they  are  indeed  a  race,  or  whether 
this  is  the  form  of  degeneracy  common  to  all  backwoods- 
men, they  are  at  least  known  by  a  generic  byword,  as 
Poor  Whites  or  Lowdowners. 

I  will  not  say  that  the  Hanson  family  was  Poor  White, 
because  the  name  savors  of  offense;  but  I  may  go  as  far 
as  this — they  were,  in  many  points,  not  unsimilar  to  the 
people  usually  so  called.  Rufe  himself  combined  two  of 
the  qualifications,  for  he  was  both  a  hunter  and  an 
amateur  detective.  It  was  he  who  pursued  Russel  and 
Dollar,  the  robbers  of  the  Lakeport  stage,  and  captured 
them  the  very  morning  after  the  exploit,  while  they  were 
still  sleeping  in  a  hay-field.  Russel,  a  drunken  Scotch 
carpenter,  was  even  an  acquaintance  of  his  own,  and  he 
expressed  much  grave  commiseration  for  his  fate.  In  all 
that  he  said  and  did,  Rufe  was  grave.  I  never  saw  him 
hurried.  When  he  spoke,  he  took  out  his  pipe  with  cere- 
monial deliberation,  looked  east  and  west,  and  then,  in 
quiet  tones  and  few  words,  stated  his  business  or  told  his 
story.  His  gait  was  to  match;  it  would  never  have  sur- 
prised you  if,  at  any  step,  he  had  turned  round  and 
walked  away  again,  so  warily  and  slowly,  and  with  so 
much  seeming  hesitation  did  he  go  about.  He  lay  long 
in  bed  in  the  morning — rarely,  indeed,  rose  before  noon; 
he  loved  all  games,  from  poker  to  clerical  croquet,  and  in 
the  Toll  House  croquet  ground  I  have  seen  him  toiling 
at  the  latter  with  the  devotion  of  a  curate.  He  took  an 
interest  in  education,  was  an  active  member  of  the  local 
school  board,  and  when  I  was  there,  he  had  recently  lost 
the  schoolhouse  key.  His  wagon  was  broken,  but  it 
never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  to  mend  it.  Like  all  truly 
idle  people,  he  had  an  artistic  eye.  He  chose  the  print 
stuff  for  his  wife's  dresses,  and  counselled  her  in  the 
making  of  a  patchwork  quilt,  always,  as  she  thought, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  155 

wrongly,  but  to  the  more  educated  eye,  always  with 
bizarre  and  admirable  taste — the  taste  of  an  Indian. 
With  all  this,  he  was  a  perfect,  unoffending  gentleman 
in  word  and  act.  Take  his  clay  pipe  from  him,  and  he 
was  fit  for  any  society  but  that  of  fools.  Quiet  as  he 
was,  there  burned  a  deep,  permanent  excitement  in  his 
dark  blue  eyes;  and  when  this  grave  man  smiled,  it  was 
like  sunshine  in  a  shady  place. 

Mrs.  Hanson  (nee,  if  you  please,  Lovelands)  was  more 
commonplace  than  her  lord.  She  was  a  comely  woman, 
too,  plump,  fair-colored,  with  wonderful  white  teeth;  and 
in  her  print  dresses  (chosen  by  Rufe)  and  with  a  large 
sunbonnet  shading  her  valued  complexion,  made,  I  as- 
sure you,  a  very  agreeable  figure.  But  she  was  on  the 
surface,  what  there  was  of  her,  outspoken  and  loud- 
spoken.  Her  noisy  laughter  had  none  of  the  charm  of  one 
of  Hanson's  rare,  slow-spreading  smiles;  there  was  no 
reticence,  no  mystery,  no  manner  about  the  woman;  she 
was  a  first-class  dairymaid,  but  her  husband  was  an  un- 
known quantity  between  the  savage  and  the  nobleman. 
She  was  often  in  and  out  with  us,  merry,  and  healthy, 
and  fair;  he  came  far  seldomer — only,  indeed,  when  there 
was  business,  or  now  and  again,  to  pay  a  visit  of  cere- 
mony, brushed  up  for  the  occasion,  with  his  wife  on  his 
arm,  and  a  clean  clay  pipe  in  his  teeth.  These  visits,  in 
our  forest  state,  had  quite  the  ah-  of  an  event,  and  turned 
our  red  canyon  into  a  salon. 

Such  was  the  pair  who  ruled  in  the  old  Silverado  Hotel, 
among  the  windy  trees,  on  the  mountain  shoulder  over- 
looking the  whole  length  of  Napa  Valley,  as  the  man  aloft 
looks  down  on  the  ship's  deck.  There  they  kept  house, 
with  sundry  horses  and  fowls,  and  a  family  of  sons, 
Daniel  Webster,  and  I  think  George  Washington,  among 
the  number.  Nor  did  they  want  visitors.  An  old  gentle- 
man, of  singular  stolidity,  and  called  Breedlove— I  think 


156  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

he  had  crossed  the  plains  in  the  same  caravan  with  Rule 
— housed  with  them  for  a  while  during  our  stay;  and  they 
had  besides  a  permanent  lodger,  in  the  form  of  Mrs. 
Hanson's  brother,  Irvine  Lovelands.  I  spell  Irvine  by 
guess;  for  I  could  get  no  information  on  the  subject,  just 
as  I  could  never  find  out,  in  spite  of  many  inquiries, 
whether  or  not  Rufe  was  a  contraction  for  Rufus.  They 
were  all  cheerfully  at  sea  about  their  names  in  that  gen- 
eration. And  this  is  surely  the  more  notable  where  the 
names  are  all  so  strange,  and  even  the  family  names 
appear  to  have  been  coined.  At  one  time,  at  least,  the 
ancestors  of  all  these  Alvins  and  Alvas,  Loveinas,  Love- 
lands,  and  Breedloves,  must  have  taken  serious  counsel 
and  found  a  certain  poetry  in  these  denominations;  that 
must  have  been,  then,  their  form  of  literature.  But 
still  times  change;  and  their  next  descendants,  the  George 
Washingtons  and  Daniel  Websters,  will  at  least  be  clear 
upon  the  point.  And  anyway,  and  however  his  name 
should  be  spelled,  this  Irvine  Lovelands  was  the  most  un- 
mitigated Caliban  I  ever  knew. 

Our  very  first  morning  at  Silverado,  when  we  were  full 
of  business,  patching  up  doors  and  windows,  making  beds 
and  seats,  and  getting  our  rough  lodging  into  shape, 
Irvine  and  his  sister  made  their  appearance  together,  she 
for  neighborliness  and  general  curiosity;  he,  because  he 
was  working  for  me,  to  my  sorrow,  cutting  firewood  at  I 
forget  how  much  a  day.  The  way  that  he  set  about 
cutting  wood  was  characteristic.  We  were  at  that  mo- 
ment patching  up  and  unpacking  in  the  kitchen.  Down 
he  sat  on  one  side,  and  down  sat  his  sister  on  the  other. 
Both  were  chewing  pine-tree  gum,  and  he,  to  my  annoy- 
ance, accompanied  that  simple  pleasure  with  profuse  ex- 
pectoration. She  rattled  away,  talking  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  laughing,  tossing  her  head,  showing  her  brilliant 
teeth.  He  looked  on  in  silence,  now  spitting  heavily  on 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  157 

the  floor,  now  putting  his  head  back  and  uttering  a  loud, 
discordant,  joyless  laugh.  He  had  a  tangle  of  shock  hair, 
the  color  of  wool;  his  mouth  was  a  grin;  although  as  strong 
as  a  horse,  he  looked  neither  heavy  nor  yet  adroit,  only 
leggy,  coltish,  and  in  the  road.  But  it  was  plain  he  was 
in  high  spirits,  thoroughly  enjoying  his  visit;  and  he 
laughed  frankly  whenever  we  failed  to  accomplish  what 
we  were  about.  This  was  scarcely  helpful:  it  was  even, 
to  amateur  carpenters,  embarrassing;  but  it  lasted  until 
we  knocked  off  work  and  began  to  get  dinner.  Then 
Mrs.  Hanson  remembered  she  should  have  been  gone  an 
hour  ago;  and  the  pair  retired,  and  the  lady's  laughter 
died  away  among  the  nutmegs  down  the  path.  That 
was  Irvine's  first  day's  work  in  my  employment — the 
devil  take  him ! 

The  next  morning  he  returned  and,  as  he  was  this  time 
alone,  he  bestowed  his  conversation  upon  us  with  great 
liberality.  He  prided  himself  on  his  intelligence;  asked 
us  if  we  knew  the  schoolma'am.  He  didn't  think  much 
of  her,  anyway.  He  had  tried  her,  he  had.  He  had  put 
a  question  to  her.  If  a  tree  a  hundred  feet  high  were  to 
fall  a  foot  a  day,  how  long  would  it  take  to  fall  right 
down?  She  had  not  been  able  to  solve  the  problem. 
"She  don't  know  nothing,"  he  opined.  He  told  us  how 
a  friend  of  his  kept  a  school  with  a  revolver,  and  chuckled 
mightily  over  that;  his  friend  could  teach  school,  he  could* 
All  the  time  he  kept  chewing  gum  and  spitting.  He 
would  stand  a  while  looking  down;  and  then  he  would 
toss  back  his  shock  of  hair,  and  laugh  hoarsely,  and  spit, 
and  bring  forward  a  new  subject.  A  man,  he  told  us, 
who  bore  a  grudge  against  him,  had  poisoned  his  dog. 
"That  was  a  low  thing  for  a  man  to  do  now,  wasn't  it? 
It  wasn't  like  a  man,  that,  nohow.  But  I  got  even  with 
him:  I  pisoned  his  dog."  His  clumsy  utterance,  his  rude 
embarrassed  manner,  set  a  fresh  value  on  the  stupidity 


158  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

of  his  remarks.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  appreciated  the 
meaning  of  two  words  until  I  knew  Irvine — the  verb, 
loaf,  and  the  noun,  oaf;  between  them,  they  complete  his 
portrait.  He  could  lounge,  and  wriggle,  and  rub  himself 
against  the  wall,  and  grin,  and  be  more  in  everybody's 
way  than  any  other  two  people  that  I  ever  set  my  eyes 
on.  Nothing  that  he  did  became  him;  and  yet  you  were 
conscious  that  he  was  one  of  your  own  race,  that  his  mind 
was  cumbrously  at  work,  revolving  the  problem  of  exist- 
ence like  the  quid  of  gum,  and  in  his  own  cloudy  manner 
enjoying  life,  and  passing  judgment  on  his  fellows.  Above 
all  things,  he  was  delighted  with  himself.  You  would 
not  have  thought  it,  from  his  uneasy  manners  and  troubled, 
struggling  utterance;  but  he  loved  himself  to  the  marrow, 
and  was  happy  and  proud  like  a  peacock  on  a  rail. 

His  self-esteem  was,  indeed,  the  one  joint  in  his  harness. 
He  could  be  got  to  work,  and  even  kept  at  work,  by  flat- 
tery. As  long  as  my  wife  stood  over  him,  crying  out  how 
strong  he  was,  so  long  exactly  he  would  stick  to  the  matter 
in  hand;  and  the  moment  she  turned  her  back,  or  ceased 
to  praise  him,  he  would  stop.  His  physical  strength  was 
wonderful;  and  to  have  a  woman  stand  by  and  admire  his 
achievements,  warmed  his  heart  like  sunshine.  Yet  he 
was  as  cowardly  as  he  was  powerful,  and  felt  no  shame 
in  owning  to  the  weakness.  Something  was  once  wanted 
from  the  crazy  platform  over  the  shaft,  and  he  at  once 
refused  to  venture  there — "did  not  like,"  as  he  said, 
"foolen*  round  them  kind  o'  places,"  and  let  my  wife 
go  instead  of  him,  looking  on  with  a  grin.  Vanity,  where 
it  rules,  is  usually  more  heroic:  but  Irvine  steadily  ap- 
proved himself,  and  expected  others  to  approve  him; 
rather  looked  down  upon  my  wife,  and  decidedly  expected 
her  to  look  up  to  him,  on  the  strength  of  his  superior 
prudence. 

Yet  the  strangest  part  of  the  whole  matter  was  per- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  159 

haps  this,  that  Irvine  was  as  beautiful  as  a  statue.  His 
features  were,  in  themselves,  perfect;  it  was  only  his 
cloudy,  uncouth,  and  coarse  expression  that  disfigured 
them.  So  much  strength  residing  in  so  spare  a  frame 
was  proof  sufficient  of  the  accuracy  of  his  shape.  He 
must  have  been  built  somewhat  after  the  pattern  of  Jack 
Sheppard;  but  the  famous  housebreaker,  we  may  be  cer- 
tain, was  no  lout.  It  was  by  the  extraordinary  powers  of 
his  mind  no  less  than  by  the  vigor  of  his  body,  that  he 
broke  his  strong  prison  with  such  imperfect  implements, 
turning  the  very  obstacles  to  service.  Irvine,  in  the  same 
case,  would  have  sat  down  and  spat,  and  grumbled  curses. 
He  had  the  soul  of  a  fat  sheep,  but,  regarded  as  an  artist's 
model,  the  exterior  of  a  Greek  god.  It  was  a  cruel 
thought  to  persons  less  favored  in  their  birth,  that  this 
creature,  endowed — to  use  the  language  of  theatres — 
with  extraordinary  "means,"  should  so  manage  to  mis- 
employ them  that  he  looked  ugly  and  almost  deformed. 
It  was  only  by  an  effort  of  abstraction,  and  after  many 
days,  that  you  discovered  what  he  was. 

By  playing  on  the  oaf's  conceit,  and  standing  closely 
over  him,  we  got  a  path  made  round  the  corner  of  the 
dump  to  our  door,  so  that  we  could  come  and  go  with 
decent  ease;  and  he  even  enjoyed  the  work,  for  in  that 
there  were  boulders  to  be  plucked  up  bodily,  bushes  to 
be  uprooted,  and  other  occasions  for  athletic  display: 
but  cutting  wood  was  a  different  matter.  Anybody  could 
cut  wood;  and,  besides,  my  wife  was  tired  of  supervising 
him,  and  had  other  things  to  attend  to.  And,  in  short, 
days  went  by,  and  Irvine  came  daily,  and  talked  and 
lounged  and  spat;  but  the  firewood  remained  intact  as 
sleepers  on  the  platform  or  growing  trees  upon  the  moun- 
tainside. Irvine  as  a  wood-cutter,  we  could  tolerate; 
but  Irvine  as  a  friend  of  the  family,  at  so  much  a  day, 
was  too  bald  an  imposition,  and  at  length,  on  the  after- 


160  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

noon  of  the  fourth  or  fifth  day  of  our  connection,  I  ex- 
plained to  him,  as  clearly  as  I  could,  the  light  in  which  I 
had  grown  to  regard  his  presence.  I  pointed  out  to  him 
that  I  could  not  continue  to  give  him  a  salary  for  spitting 
on  the  floor;  and  this  expression,  which  came  after  a  good 
many  others,  at  last  penetrated  his  obdurate  wits.  He 
rose  at  once,  and  said  if  that  was  the  way  he  was  going 
to  be  spoke  to,  he  reckoned  he  would  quit.  And,  no  one 
interposing,  he  departed. 

So  far,  so  good.  But  we  had  no  firewood.  The  next 
afternoon,  I  strolled  down  to  Rufe's  and  consulted  him 
on  the  subject.  It  was  a  very  droll  interview,  in  the 
large,  bare  north  room  of  the  Silverado  Hotel,  Mrs.  Han- 
son's patchwork  on  a  frame,  and  Rufe,  and  his  wife,  and 
I,  and  the  oaf  himself,  all  more  or  less  embarrassed. 
Rufe  announced  there  was  nobody  in  the  neighborhood 
but  Irvine  who  could  do  a  day's  work  for  anybody. 
Irvine,  thereupon,  refused  to  have  any  more  to  do  with 
my  service;  he  "wouldn't  work  no  more  for  a  man  as  had 
spoke  to  him  's  I  had  done."  I  found  myself  on  the 
point  of  the  last  humiliation — driven  to  beseech  the 
creature  whom  I  had  just  dismissed  with  insult:  but  I 
took  the  high  hand  in  despair,  said  there  must  be  no 
talk  of  Irvine  coming  back  unless  matters  were  to  be 
differently  managed;  that  I  would  rather  chop  firewood 
for  myself  than  be  fooled;  and,  in  short,  the  Hansons 
being  eager  for  the  lad's  hire,  I  so  imposed  upon  them 
with  merely  affected  resolution,  that  they  ended  by  beg- 
ging me  to  re-employ  him  again  on  a  solemn  promise  that 
he  should  be  more  industrious.  The  promise,  I  am  bound 
to  say,  was  kept.  We  soon  had  a  fine  pile  of  firewood  at 
our  door;  and  if  Caliban  gave  me  the  cold  shoulder  and 
spared  me  his  conversation,  I  thought  none  the  worse  of 
feim  for  that,  nor  did  I  find  my  days  much  longer  for  the 
deprivation. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  161 

The  leading  spirit  of  the  family  was,  I  am  inclined  to 
fancy,  Mrs.  Hanson.  Her  social  brilliancy  somewhat 
dazzled  the  others,  and  she  had  more  of  the  small  change 
of  sense.  It  wa»  she  who  faced  Kelmar,  for  instance; 
and  perhaps,  if  she  had  been  alone,  Kelmar  would  have 
had  no  rule  within  her  doors.  Rufe,  to  be  sure,  had  a 
fine,  sober,  open-air  attitude  of  mind,  seeing  the  world 
without  exaggeration — perhaps,  we  may  even  say,  with- 
out enough;  for  he  lacked,  along  with  the  others,  that 
commercial  idealism  which  puts  so  high  a  value  on  time 
and  money.  Sanity  itself  is  a  kind  of  convention.  Per- 
haps Rufe  was  wrong;  but,  looking  on  life  plainly,  he  was 
unable  to  perceive  that  croquet  or  poker  were  in  any 
way  less  important  than,  for  instance,  mending  his  wagon. 
Even  his  own  profession,  hunting,  was  dear  to  him  mainly 
as  a  sort  of  play;  even  that  he  would  have  neglected,  had 
it  not  appealed  to  his  imagination.  His  hunting-suit,  for 
instance,  had  cost  I  should  be  afraid  to  say  how  many 
bucks — the  currency  in  which  he  paid  his  way:  it  was 
all  befringed,  after  the  Indian  fashion,  and  it  was  dear 
to  his  heart.  The  pictorial  side  of  his  daily  business 
was  never  forgotten.  He  was  even  anxious  to  stand  for 
his  picture  in  those  buckskin  hunting  clothes;  and  I  re- 
member how  he  once  warmed  almost  into  enthusiasm, 
his  dark  blue  eyes  growing  perceptibly  larger,  as  he 
planned  the  composition  in  which  he  should  appear, 
"with  the  horns  of  some  real  big  bucks,  and  dogs,  and  a 
camp  on  a  crick"  (creek,  stream). 

There  was  no  trace  in  Irvine  of  this  woodland  poetry. 
He  did  not  care  for  hunting,  nor  yet  for  buckskin  suite. 
He  had  never  observed  scenery.  The  world,  as  it  ap- 
peared to  him,  was  almost  obliterated  by  his  own  great 
grinning  figure  in  the  foreground :  Caliban  Malvolio.  And 
it  seems  to  me  as  if,  in  the  persons  of  these  brothers-in- 
law,  we  had  the  two  sides  of  rusticity  fairly  well  rep- 


162  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

resented:  the  hunter  living  really  in  nature;  the  clod- 
hopper living  merely  out  of  society:  the  one  bent  up  in 
every  corporal  agent  to  capacity  in  one  pursuit,  doing  at 
least  one  thing  keenly  and  thoughtfully,  and  thoroughly 
alive  to  all  that  touches  it;  the  other  in  the  inert  and 
bestial  state,  walking  in  a  faint  dream,  and  taking  so 
dim  an  impression  of  the  myriad  sides  of  life  that  he  is 
truly  conscious  of  nothing  but  himself.  It  is  only  in 
the  fastnesses  of  nature,  forests,  mountains,  and  the 
back  of  man's  beyond,  that  a  creature  endowed  with  five 
senses  can  grow  up  into  the  perfection  of  this  crass  and 
earthy  vanity.  In  towns  or  the  busier  country  sides, 
he  is  roughly  reminded  of  other  men's  existence;  and  if 
he  learns  no  more,  he  learns  at  least  to  fear  contempt. 
But  Irvine  had  come  scathless  through  life,  conscious 
only  of  himself,  of  his  great  strength  and  intelligence; 
and  in  the  silence  of  the  universe,  to  which  he  did  not 
listen,  dwelling  with  delight  on  the  sound  of  his  own 
thoughts. 


JULIAN  STREET 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


Julian  Street  (1879 )  an  American  journalist  of 

to-day,  was  born  in  Chicago,  and  received  his  education 
in  the  public  schools  of  that  city  and  at  Ridley  College. 
He  entered  journalism,  becoming  a  reporter  on  the  New 
York  Mail  (then  the  Mail  and  Express),  in  1899,  and  wns 
for  a  time  dramatic  editor.  He  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  to  magazines,  and  has  published  a  number  of 
books,  of  which  the  best  known  are  a  humorous  story, 
The  Need  of  Change,  some  sketches  of  travel  called  Abroad 
at  Home  and  American  Adventures,  also  a  recent  book  on 
Mysterious  Japan. 

His  work  as  a  writer  of  magazine  articles  brought  him 
into  relations  with  Theodore  Roosevelt,  and,  like  many 
other  journalists,  he  became  a  warm  admirer  of  the  Colo- 
nel. In  1915  he  published  a  sketch  of  Roosevelt  with 
the  title  The  Most  Interesting  American.  In  this  he  pointed 
out  the  fact  that  Theodore  Roosevelt  combined  within 
himself  men  of  many  types :  he  was  a  physical-culture  ex- 
pert, a  historian,  a  biographer,  an  essayist,  a  natural  scien- 
tist, a  big-game  hunter,  an  explorer  and  discoverer,  a 
critic,  a  former  cowboy,  the  holder  of  a  dozen  LL.D.'s, 
an  editor,  a  former  member  of  the  State  legislature,  a  prac- 
tical reformer,  a  veteran  colonel  of  cavalry,  a  former  As- 
sistant Secretary  of  the  Navy,  a  former  governor,  a  Nobel 
prize  winner,  a  former  Vice-president  and  former  Presi- 
dent— the  youngest  who  ever  held  that  position.  On  the 
death  of  Theodore  Roosevelt,  Mr.  Street  wrote  the  fine 
tribute  here  printed;  it  appeared  first  in  Collier's,  and  is 
now  published  as  part  of  the  volume,  The  Most  Interest- 
ing American. 


JULIAN  STREET 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THEODORE    ROOSEVELT* 
(From  The  Most  Interesting  American) 

We,  whom  Theodore  Roosevelt  used  proudly  and  affec- 
tionately to  call  his  "fellow  Americans/'  have  always 
listened  with  great  relish  to  characteristic  stories  of  him. 
His  qualities,  physical  and  spiritual,  were  so  utterly  his 
own,  his  individuality  so  intense  and  overmastering,  that 
he  seemed  somehow  to  be  projected  among  us,  to  be  in- 
timately known  even  to  those  of  us  who  had  never  touched 
his  hand  or  even  seen  him.  It  was  this  curious  feeling 
as  of  personal  acquaintance  with  him  that  caused  us  so 
to  delight  in  the  flavor  of  a  typical  Roosevelt  story. 

"Isn't  that  just  like  him !"  we  would  say,  as  we  might 
of  a  story  hitting  off  familiar  traits  of  our  own  father. 

But  whereas,  on  the  night  of  January  5,  1919,  a  Roose- 
velt story  might  by  many  of  us  have  been  regarded  merely 
as  something  entertaining,  the  next  morning  witnessed  a 
great  change.  The  wand  of  Death  touching  him  as  he 
slept,  releasing  him  to  further  high  adventure,  to  great, 
final  explorations,  transformed  not  him  alone,  but  the 
environment  and  the  legend  of  him.  To  every  posses- 
sion of  his,  from  the  wife  and  children  he  loved  to  such 
small  objects  as  that  inkstand,  made  from  an  elephant's 
foot,  which  stood  upon  his  desk  at  Sagamore  Hill,  or  the 
very  pens  and  pencils  there,  thenceforth  attached  a  quite 
new  sacredness.  And  so,  for  us,  his  fellow  Americans, 

*  Copyright,  Cottier's,  February  1,  1919;  also  Century  Co.,  1920. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  publishers. 

165 


166  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

new  sacredness  attaches  now  to  the  rich  legacy  of  wisdom 
he  has  left  us,  to  every  thought  of  his  that  we  can  learn, 
to  every  belief  he  held,  and  consequently  to  every  au- 
thentic story  that  can  in  any  way  contribute  to  our 
knowledge  of  him. 

In  the  vast  amount  of  matter  that  has  been  printed  of 
the  Colonel  I  do  not  recall  having  seen  any  reference  to  a 
certain  theory  that  he  had  (and,  having  it,  of  course  he 
put  it  into  practice)  in  connection  with  the  bringing  up 
of  children.  It  was  a  characteristic  theory,  and  now  it, 
like  all  else,  takes  on  a  new  significance. 

As  long  since  as  when  he  was  Governor  of  New  York 
it  was  his  practice  to  go  every  Saturday  afternoon  for  a 
tramp  in  the  country  with  Mrs.  Roosevelt  and  the  chil- 
dren. And  it  was  understood  between  them  that  in  the 
course  of  all  such  tramps  he  would  lead  them  to  some 
physical  obstacle  which  must  be  overcome.  Sometimes 
it  would  be  merely  the  obstacle  of  long  distance  over  a 
difficult  terrain,  calling  for  sustained  effort  in  face  of 
great  fatigue;  sometimes  it  would  be  a  wide  brook  to  be 
crossed  at  a  difficult  place;  sometimes  a  deep  ravine  full 
of  tangled  underbrush  to  be  traversed;  and  on  one  mem- 
orable occasion,  less  than  a  fortnight  before  the  Colonel 
was  nominated  for  Vice-President — that  nomination  de- 
signed by  political  enemies  within  his  own  party  to  ter- 
minate his  political  career — there  was  a  steep  cliff  of 
crumbling  slate  to  be  ascended  and  descended. 

The  idea  that  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Roosevelt  attempted 
to  fasten  in  the  children's  minds  was  that  life  frequently 
presents  obstacles  comparable  with  those  encountered  on 
these  walks,  and  that  it  is  the  part  of  good  manhood  and 
good  womanhood  squarely  to  meet  and  surmount  them, 
going  through  or  over,  but  never  around.  Thus  early  the 
Roosevelt  children,  whose  later  record  has  been  so  worthy 
ef  their  father  and  their  mother,  had  begun  to  learn  pri- 


JULIAN  STREET  167 

mary  lessons  in  resourcefulness,  perseverance,  courage, 
stoicism,  and  disregard  for  danger — for  sometimes,  as  in 
the  Adventure  of  the  Slate  Cliff,  there  was  danger. 

The  bank,  soft  and  almost  perpendicular,  at  first  ap- 
peared insurmountable,  but  after  an  hour  and  a  half  all 
but  one  of  that  day's  walking  party  had  managed  to 
climb  up  and  down  again.  The  exception  was  Alice 
Roosevelt,  then  a  girl  of  sixteen,  who,  having  reached 
the  top,  found  herself  unable  to  descend. 

On  this  day  Elon  Hooker,  an  old  friend  of  the  Roose- 
velts,  was  with  them.  Walking  along  the  base  of  the 
cliff,  this  young  man  found  a  stout  tree  growing  up  be- 
side it.  Climbing  the  tree,  he  leaned  out  and,  seizing 
with  one  hand  a  hummock  of  slate  at  the  crest  of  the 
little  precipice,  offered  his  arm  as  a  bridge  over  which 
Alice  could  step  into  the  tree,  whence  it  would  be  no 
very  difficult  matter  to  climb  down  to  earth. 

The  hummock  was  less  secure  than  it  appeared.  As 
she  stepped  upon  his  arm  the  slate  to  which  he  was  hold- 
ing broke  away  and  his  arm  fell  beneath  her.  She  had, 
however,  managed  to  grasp  with  one  hand  a  branch,  and 
to  this  she  clung  until  he  succeeded  in  catching  her  and 
drawing  her  safely  into  the  tree. 

On  reaching  the  ground  they  discovered  that  the  fallen 
mass  of  slate  had  struck  the  Colonel  fairly  on  the  head, 
laying  open  his  scalp  from  the  forehead  to  a  corresponding 
point  at  the  back  of  the  skull.  Though  the  wound  bled 
freely,  they  were  immediately  reassured  by  his  smile. 
Finding  a  brook,  they  washed  the  gash  as  best  they 
could;  later  a  surgeon  took  a  dozen  stitches  in  the 
Colonel's  scalp;  and  when,  some  ten  days  after,  he  at- 
tended the  Republican  National  Convention  he  was  none 
the  worse  for  the  accident.  Few  persons,  indeed,  knew 
of  it  at  all,  for  it  was  characteristic  of  him  to  avoid  any 
mention  of  his  injuries  or  ailments,  and  if  forced  to  men- 


168  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

tion  them  he  would  invariably  pass  them  off  as  being  of 
no  consequence. 

Thus,  for  example,  when  it  became  known  a  twelve- 
month or  so  ago  that  he  had  been  for  many  years  stone 
blind  in  the  left  eye,  as  the  result  of  a  blow  received  in 
boxing,  the  news  came  as  a  surprise  to  numerous  friends 
who  knew  him  well.  Yet  he  had  been  blind  in  that  eye 
when  he  shot  lions  in  Africa.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
sensitive  about  his  blindness,  nor  do  I  think  he  tried  par- 
ticularly to  conceal  it.  It  was  simply  that  he  had  an 
aversion,  resembling  that  of  the  aboriginal  American,  for 
the  discussion  of  bodily  ills;  a  contempt  for  the  incon- 
venience or  suffering  resulting  from  them.  And  still, 
when  others  suffered  physically  or  spiritually,  he  was  the 
most  solicitous,  the  gentlest,  the  tenderest  of  men. 

It  was  like  him,  too,  that  throughout  the  afternoon 
on  which  he  went  to  the  hospital  for  a  grave  operation, 
a  year  before  his  death,  he  continued  to  dictate  letters  to 
his  secretary,  and  that  while  dictating  he  had  a  hemor- 
rhage and  fainted  three  times,  only  to  revive  and  resume 
his  dictation.  And  until  the  doctor  forbade  it,  he  even 
contemplated  going  that  night  to  a  dinner  at  which  he 
had  agreed  to  speak. 

On  his  hunting  trips,  when  travelling,  and  more  lately 
when  confined  to  his  bed  in  the  hospital,  he  utilized  every 
moment  of  his  time  for  work,  study,  and  reflection;  he 
would  concentrate  upon  a  book  or  a  conversation  while 
enduring  pain  to  a  degree  that  would  have  rendered  it 
impossible  for  most  men  to  think  consecutively,  let  alone 
converse  upon  important  topics  with  a  succession  of 
visitors. 

He  was  afraid  neither  to  live  nor  to  die.  And  in  the 
purely  orthodox  sense  he  had  no  cause  to  fear  death,  for 
his  soul  was  as  clean  as  that  of  a  little  child.  The  ulti- 
mate biographer  of  Roosevelt  will  not  have  BO  much  as 


JULIAN  STREET  169 

one  single  item  to  gloss  over  or  conceal.  And  I  am  not 
sure  that  that  is  not  the  finest  thing  that  may  be  said 
of  any  man. 

Until  a  year  ago  I  never  heard  him  speak  of  death, 
but  since  then  I  have  known  him  to  speak  of  it  more 
than  once.  I  am  wondering  now  if  it  merely  happened 
so,  or  whether,  as  he  lay  there  in  the  hospital  a  year  ago, 
and  again  in  the  last  months  of  the  year  just  past, 
he  may  not  have  had  a  premonition  that  the  end  was 
perhaps  nearer  than  those  about  him  supposed.  Cer- 
tainly he  knew  a  year  ago,  at  the  time  of  the  operation 
for  an  abscess  in  the  middle  ear,  which  rapidly  extended 
to  the  inner  ear,  that  he  was  at  death's  door.  Dr.  Arthur 
B.  Duel,  his  surgeon,  told  him  so,  and  the  Colonel  promptly 
expressed  a  brave  resignation. 

I  saw  him  in  the  hospital  a  few  days  after  the  opera- 
tion. He  was  reading  a  book.  After  we  had  spoken  a 
few  words  he  said: 

"Lying  here,  I  have  often  thought  how  glad  I  would 
be  to  go  now  if  by  doing  so  I  could  only  bring  the  boys 
back  safe  to  Mrs.  Roosevelt." 

One  day  at  luncheon  last  April,  when  we  all  thought 
him  as  vigorous  as  ever,  he  spoke  again  of  his  boys,  and 
there  was  in  what  he  said  as  much  apprehension  for  them 
as  he  ever  allowed  himself  to  show — or  perhaps  I  should 
say  as  much  apprehension  of  the  blow  that  the  loss  of 
any  one  of  them  would  be  to  the  remainder  of  the  family. 

"Mrs.  Roosevelt  has  been  perfectly  wonderful,"  he 
said,  "about  their  going  to  fight.  We  both  realize  that 
we  have  a  very  full,  interesting,  satisfying  life  to  look 
back  upon.  Whatever  may  come  now,  we  have  had 
more  than  thirty  years  of  happiness  together,  with  all 
our  children  spared  to  us." 

And  again,  less  than  a  month  ago,  as  I  write,  when  I 
called  at  the  hospital,  Mrs.  Roosevelt— who  always  stayed 


170  THE  CHARACTER  SKETCH 

there  with  him — spoke  in  the  same  terms,  though  in  the 
interim  the  blow  had  fallen.  It  was  of  Quentin,  the 
eagle,  that  she  spoke. 

"We  have  been  until  now  a  singularly  united  family/' 
she  said.  "This  is  the  first  loss  from  our  immediate 
circle.  Life  has  been  kind  to  us.  We  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for." 

The  story  I  have  told  of  his  walks  with  the  children 
and  the  obstacles  over  which  he  led  them  was,  until  the 
morning  of  January  6,  only  a  typical  Roosevelt  story. 
Since  then  it  has  become  an  allegory.  For  his  feeling  for 
us  all  was  in  a  very  fine  sense  paternal.  He  was  the 
father;  we  the  children.  "Face  the  obstacles,"  he  always 
urged  us.  "Go  through  or  over;  never  around." 

Or  to  quote  his  own  words,  uttered  in  that  great  speech 
twenty  years  ago: 

"/  preach  to  you,  then,  my  countrymen,  that  our  country 
calls  not  for  the  life  of  ease,  but  for  the  life  of  strenuous  en- 
deavor. The  twentieth  century  looms  before  us  big  with  the 
fate  of  many  nations.  If  we  stand  idly  by,  if  we  seek  merely 
swollen,  slothful  ease  and  ignoble  peace,  if  we  shrink  from 
the  hard  contests  where  men  must  win  at  hazard  of  their  lives 
and  at  the  risk  of  all  they  hold  dear,  then  the  bolder  and 
stronger  people  will  pass  by  us  and  will  win  for  themselves 
the  domination  of  the  world. 

"Let  us  therefore  boldly  face  the  life  of  strife,  resolute  to 
do  our  duty  well  and  manfully  ;  resolute  to  uphold  righteous- 
ness by  deed  and  by  word;  resolute  to  be  both  honest  and 
brave,  to  serve  high  ideals,  yet  to  use  practical  methods. 
Above  all,  let  us  not  shrink  from  strife,  moral  or  physical, 
within  or  without  the  Nation,  provided  we  are  certain  the 
strife  is  justified ;  for  it  is  only  through  strife,  through  hard 
and  dangerous  endeavor,  that  we  shall  ultimately  win  the 
goal  of  true  national  greatness." 

That,  I  believe,  was  the  essence  of  Roosevelt's  per- 


JULIAN  STREET  171 

sonal  and  national  philosophy.  Simply  he  thought  and 
spoke  and  lived  and  died.  And  that,  without  exception, 
has  been  true  of  all  our  greatest  men.  Like  Lincoln  and 
Franklin,  he  was  one  of  us.  When  he  spoke  we  under- 
stood him.  He  never  juggled  thoughts  or  words  to  baffle 
us,  confuse  us,  stupefy  us  with  the  brilliancy  of  his  per- 
formance. Nor  did  he  ever  speak  or  write  to  mask  a 
purpose,  or  a  lack  of  purpose.  He  never  thought,  as  he 
tried  to  set  down  his  ideas:  "Now  I  am  writing  something 
that  will  live.  Now  I  am  making  history."  He  was  im- 
patient of  such  notions,  just  as  he  was  impatient  of  the 
applause  that  interrupted  him  when  he  was  making  pub- 
lic speeches.  Time  and  again  I  have  seen  him  hold  up 
his  hand  to  stop  applause.  He  wanted  to  go  on.  It  was 
the  thing  to  be  accomplished  that  obsessed  him. 

Thinking  of  the  ingratitude  that  we  have  sometimes 
shown  him,  and  of  the  follies  we  have  committed,  on  oc- 
casion, in  face  of  his  exhortation  to  be  brave  and  prompt 
and  ready,  I  once  asked  him  how  he  had  kept  from  be- 
coming cynical  about  mankind. 

"I  am  not  cynical,"  he  said,  " because  I  have  observed 
that  just  when  our  people  seem  to  be  becoming  altogether 
hopeless  they  have  a  way  of  suddenly  turning  around  and 
doing  something  perfectly  magnificent." 

What  a  prophecy  that  was !— for  he  said  it  in  the  hour 
of  our  national  shame,  when  we  were  crying  gratefully: 
"He  kept  us  out  of  war !" 

Well  may  we  be  thankful  that  Roosevelt  lived  to  see 
his  profound  faith  in  us  justified;  to  see  us  at  last  take  up 
arms  in  answer  to  his  repeated  call;  to  see  us  quit  "the 
life  of  ease"  for  that  of  "strenuous  endeavor";  to  see  us 
spurn  "ignoble  peace"  and  enter  the  "hard  contest  where 
men  must  win  at  hazard  of  their  lives."  That  the  poison 
of  pacifism  did  not  ruin  the  nation  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
we  had  Roosevelt  as  an  antitoxin. 


172  THE   CHARACTER  SKETCH 

Thus  his  greatest  single  service  to  his  country  was 
performed,  not  while  he  was  President,  but  in  the  last 
years  of  his  life;  not  while  he  held  the  reins  of  government, 
but  as  a  private  citizen  whose  unofficial  power  lay  solely 
in  the  nation's  admiration  for  him;  its  faith  in  him  and 
in  his  vision;  its  heed  to  what  he  said. 

There  will,  of  course,  be  a  memorial  to  Roosevelt.  It 
will  be  a  noble  thing  of  marble.  But  such  a  thing,  how- 
ever glorious,  will  mean  much  more  to  us  than  it  could 
mean  to  him.  We  shall  erect  it  to  give  ourselves  the 
mournful  satisfaction  of  doing  our  dead  hero  honor.  But 
let  us  not  forget,  meanwhile,  that  the  one  memorial  he 
would  have  wished  cannot  be  built  of  tangible  materials, 
but  must  be  made  of  thoughts  and  deeds. 

He  has  taken  his  last  tramp  with  his  own  children,  and 
with  us.  He  has  guided  them,  and  us,  up  to  the  last  ob- 
stacle we  were  destined  to  meet  and  overcome  under  his 
leadership.  And  the  one  thing  he  would  ask  of  us  is 
this:  That  we  go  on  without  him.  That  we  learn  the 
simple  lessons  he  has  taught  by  precept  and  example. 
That  we  be  foresighted,  prompt,  practical,  honest,  reso- 
lute, courageous. 

So,  in  ourselves,  we  will  make  his  spirit  live. 


THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 


JOHN  RUSKIN 
WHAT  AND  HOW  TO  READ 


A  sketch  of  Ruskm's  life  is  given  on  page  104.  On 
one  side  he  was  an  artist,  on  the  other  side  a  reformer. 
Even  when  he  writes  about  books,  he  does  not  aim  to  lead 
us  upon  pleasant  literary  rambles,  but  tells  us  plainly 
that  we  are  reading  the  wrong  books,  and  reading  them 
the  wrong  way.  This  is  not  very  complimentary,  it  is 
true;  if  you  are  looking  for  compliments,  if  you  are  afraid 
of  criticism,  do  not  read  Ruskin.  But  if  you  are  willing 
to  face  honest  criticism,  if  you  have  the  mental  vigor  to 
follow  a  great  thinker,  then  Ruskin  has  a  message  for  you. 
In  another  essay,  Ruskin  says:  "No  book  is  worth  any- 
thing which  is  not  worth  much;  nor  is  it  serviceable  un- 
til it  has  been  read  and  re-read  and  loved  and  loved  again, 
and  every  passage  marked,  so  that  you  can  refer  to  the 
passages  you  want  in  it,  as  a  soldier  can  seize  the  weapon 
he  needs  in  an  armory,  or  a  housewife  bring  the  spice 
she  needs  from  her  store."  As  you  read  the  following 
essay,  decide  what  passages  you  would  mark  in  this  way. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 

WHAT  AND  HOW  TO  READ 

(From  Sesame  and  Lilies,  Lecture  I) 

I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  books;  and  about  the 
way  we  read  them,  and  could,  or  should  read  them.  A 
grave  subject,  you  will  say;  and  a  wide  one !  Yes;  so 
wide  that  I  shall  make  no  effort  to  touch  the  compass 
of  it.  I  will  try  only  to  bring  before  you  a  few  simple 
thoughts  about  reading,  which  press  themselves  upon  me 
every  day  more  deeply,  as  I  watch  the  course  of  the 
public  mind  with  respect  to  our  daily  enlarging  means  of 
education,  and  the  answeringly  wider-spreading,  on  the 
levels,  of  the  irrigation  of  literature.  It  happens  that  I 
have  practically  some  connection  with  schools  for  different 
classes  of  youth;  and  I  receive  many  letters  from  parents 
respecting  the  education  of  their  children.  In  the  mass 
of  these  letters,  I  am  always  struck  by  the  precedence 
which  the  idea  of  a  "position  in  life"  takes  above  all 
other  thoughts  in  the  parents' — more  especially  in  the 
mothers' — minds.  .  .  . 

Indeed,  among  the  ideas  most  prevalent  and  effective 
in  the  mind  of  this  busiest  of  countries,  I  suppose  the 
first — at  least  that  which  is  confessed  with  the  greatest 
frankness,  and  put  forward  as  the  fittest  stimulus  to 
youthful  exertion — is  this  of  "advancement  in  life."  My 
main  purpose  this  evening  is  to  determine,  with  you, 
what  this  idea  practically  includes,  and  what  it  should 
include. 

You  will  grant  that  moderately  honest  men  desire 
place  and  office,  at  least  in  some  measure,  for  the  sake  of 

175 


176  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

their  beneficent  power;  and  would  wish  to  associate  rather 
with  sensible  and  well-informed  persons  than  with  fools 
and  ignorant  persons,  whether  they  are  seen  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  sensible  ones  or  not.  And  finally,  without 
being  troubled  by  repetition  of  any  common  truisms  about 
the  preciousness  of  friends,  and  the  influence  of  com- 
panions, you  will  admit,  doubtless,  that  according  to  the 
sincerity  of  our  desire  that  our  friends  may  be  true,  and 
our  companions  wise, — and  in  proportion  to  the  earnest- 
ness and  discretion  with  which  we  choose  both,  will  be 
the  general  chances  of  our  happiness  and  usefulness. 

But,  granting  that  we  had  both  the  will  and  the  sense 
to  choose  our  friends  well,  how  few  of  us  have  the  power ! 
or,  at  least,  how  limited,  for  most,  is  the  sphere  of  choice ! 
Nearly  all  our  associations  are  determined  by  chance  or 
necessity;  and  restricted  within  a  narrow  circle.  We 
cannot  know  whom  we  would;  and  those  whom  we  know, 
we  cannot  have  at  our  side  when  we  most  need  them. 
All  the  higher  circles  of  human  intelligence  are,  to  those 
beneath,  only  momentarily  and  partially  open.  We  may, 
by  good  fortune,  obtain  a  glimpse  of  a  great  poet,  and 
hear  the  sound  of  his  voice;  or  put  a  question  to  a  man 
of  science,  and  be  answered  good-humoredly.  We  may 
intrude  ten  minutes'  talk  on  a  cabinet  minister,  answered 
probably  with  words  worse  than  silence,  being  deceptive; 
or  snatch,  once  or  twice  in  our  lives,  the  privilege  of 
throwing  a  bouquet  in  the  path  of  a  Princess,  or  arrest- 
ing the  kind  glance  of  a  Queen.  And  yet  these  momen- 
tary chances  we  covet;  and  spend  our  years,  and  passions, 
and  powers  in  pursuit  of  little  more  than  these;  while, 
meantime,  there  is  a  society  continually  open  to  us,  of 
people  who  will  talk  to  us  as  long  as  we  like,  whatever 
our  rank  or  occupation; — talk  to  us  in  the  best  words 
they  can  choose,  and  with  thanks  if  we  listen  to  them. 
And  this  society,  because  it  is  so  numerous  and  so  gentle, 


JOHN  RUSKIN  177 

— and  can  be  kept  waiting  round  us  all  day  long,  not  to 
grant  audience,  but  to  gain  it; — kings  and  statesmen 
lingering  patiently  in  those  plainly  furnished  and  narrow 
anterooms,  our  bookcase  shelves, — we  make  no  account 
of  that  company, — perhaps  never  listen  to  a  word  they 
would  say,  all  day  long ! 

You  may  tell  me,  perhaps,  or  think  within  yourselves, 
that  the  apathy  with  which  we  regard  this  company  of 
the  noble,  who  are  praying  us  to  listen  to  them,  and  the 
passion  with  which  we  pursue  the  company,  probably  of 
the  ignoble,  who  despise  us,  or  who  have  nothing  to  teach 
us,  are  grounded  in  this, — that  we  can  see  the  faces  of 
the  living  men,  and  it  is  themselves,  and  not  their  sayings, 
with  which  we  desire  to  become  familiar.  But  it  is  not 
so.  Suppose  you  never  were  to  see  their  faces; — suppose 
you  could  be  put  behind  a  screen  in  the  statesman's 
cabinet,  or  the  prince's  chamber,  would  you  not  be  glad 
to  listen  to  their  words,  though  you  were  forbidden  to 
advance  beyond  the  screen?  And  when  the  screen  is 
only  a  little  less,  folded  in  two,  instead  of  four,  and  you 
can  be  hidden  behind  the  cover  of  the  two  boards  that 
bind  a  book,  and  listen,  all  day  long,  not  to  the  casual 
talk,  but  to  the  studied,  determined,  chosen  addresses 
of  the  wisest  of  men; — this  station  of  audience,  and  hon- 
orable privy  council,  you  despise ! 

But  perhaps  you  will  say  that  it  is  because  the  living 
people  talk  of  things  that  are  passing,  and  are  of  im- 
mediate interest  to  you,  that  you  desire  to  hear  them. 
Nay;  that  cannot  be  so,  for  the  living  people  will  them- 
selves tell  you  about  passing  matters,  much  better  in 
their  writings  than  in  their  careless  talk.  But  I  admit 
that  this  motive  does  influence  you,  so  far  as  you  prefer 
those  rapid  and  ephemeral  writings  to  slow  and  enduring 
writings— books,  properly  so  called.  For  all  books  are 
divisible  into  two  classes,  the  books  of  the  hour,  and  the 


178  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

books  of  all  time.  Mark  this  distinction — it  is  not  one 
of  quality  only.  It  is  not  merely  the  bad  book  that  does 
not  last,  and  the  good  one  that  does.  It  is  a  distinction 
of  species.  There  are  good  books  for  the  hour,  and  good 
ones  for  all  time;  bad  books  for  the  hour,  and  bad  ones 
for  all  time.  I  must  define  the  two  kinds  before  I  go 
farther. 

The  good  book  of  the  hour,  then, — I  do  not  speak  of 
the  bad  ones — is  simply  the  useful  or  pleasant  talk  of 
some  person  whom  you  cannot  otherwise  converse  with, 
printed  for  you.  Very  useful  often,  telling  you  what  you 
need  to  know;  very  pleasant  often,  as  a  sensible  friend's 
present  talk  would  be.  These  bright  accounts  of  travels; 
good-humored  and  witty  discussions  of  questions;  lively 
or  pathetic  story-telling  in  the  form  of  novel;  firm  fact- 
telling,  by  the  real  agents  concerned  in  the  events  of 
passing  history; — all  these  books  of  the  hour,  multiply- 
ing among  us  as  education  becomes  more  general,  are  a 
peculiar  characteristic  and  possession  of  the  present  age; 
we  ought  to  be  entirely  thankful  for  them,  and  entirely 
ashamed  of  ourselves  if  we  make  no  good  use  of  them. 
But  we  make  the  worst  possible  use,  if  we  allow  them  to 
usurp  the  place  of  true  books:  for,  strictly  speaking,  they 
are  not  books  at  all,  but  merely  letters  or  newspapers  in 
good  print.  Our  friend's  letter  may  be  delightful,  or 
necessary,  to-day;  whether  worth  keeping  or  not,  is  to  be 
considered.  The  newspaper  may  be  entirely  proper  at 
breakfast  time,  but  assuredly  it  is  not  reading  for  all  day. 
So,  though  bound  up  in  a  volume,  the  long  letter  which 
gives  you  so  pleasant  an  account  of  the  inns,  and  roads, 
and  weather  last  year  at  such  a  place,  or  which  tells  you 
that  amusing  story,  or  gives  you  the  real  circumstances  of 
such  and  such  events,  however  valuable  for  occasional 
reference,  may  not  be,  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word,  a 
"book"  at  all,  nor,  in  the  real  sense,  to  be  "read." 

A  book  is  essentially  not  a  talked  thing,  but  a  written 


JOHN  RUSKIN  179 

thing;  and  written,  not  with  the  view  of  mere  communi- 
cation, but  of  permanence.  The  book  of  talk  is  printed 
only  because  its  author  cannot  speak  to  thousands  of 
people  at  once;  if  he  could,  he  would — the  volume  is 
mere  multiplication  of  his  voice.  You  cannot  talk  to  your 
friend  in  India;  if  you  could,  you  would;  you  write  in- 
stead: that  is  mere  conveyance  of  voice.  But  a  book  is 
written,  not  to  multiply  the  voice  merely,  not  to  carry  it 
merely,  but  to  preserve  it.  The  author  has  something 
to  say  which  he  perceives  to  be  true  and  useful,  or  help- 
fully beautiful.  So  far  as  he  knows,  no  one  has  yet  said 
it;  so  far  as  he  knows,  no  one  else  can  say  it.  He  is  bound 
to  say  it,  clearly  and  melodiously  if  he  may;  clearly,  at 
all  events.  In  the  sum  of  his  life  he  finds  this  to  be  the 
thing,  or  group  of  things,  manifest  to  him; — this  the 
piece  of  true  knowledge,  or  sight,  which  his  share  of  sun- 
shine and  earth  has  permitted  him  to  seize.  He  would 
fain  set  it  down  forever;  engrave  it  on  rock,  if  he  could; 
saying,  "This  is  the  best  of  me;  for  the  rest,  I  ate,  and 
drank,  and  slept,  loved,  and  hated,  like  another;  my  life 
was  as  the  vapor,  and  is  not;  but  this  I  saw  and  knew; 
this,  if  anything  of  mine,  is  worth  your  memory."  That 
is  his  "writing";  it  is,  in  his  small  human  way,  and  with 
whatever  degree  of  true  inspiration  is  in  him,  his  inscrip- 
tion, or  scripture.  That  is  a  "Book." 

Perhaps  you  think  no  books  were  ever  so  written  ? 

But,  again,  I  ask  you,  do  you  at  all  believe  in  honesty, 
or  at  all  in  kindness?  or  do  you  think  there  is  never  any 
honesty  or  benevolence  in  wise  people?  None  of  us,  I 
hope,  are  so  unhappy  as  to  think  that.  Well,  whatever 
bit  of  a  wise  man's  work  is  honestly  and  benevolently 
done,  that  bit  is  his  book,  or  his  piece  of  art.  It  is  mixed 
always  with  evil  fragments— ill-done,  redundant,  affected 
work.  But  if  you  read  rightly,  you  will  easily  discover 
the  true  bits,  and  those  are  the  book. 

Now  books  of  this  kind  have  been  written  in  all  ages 


180  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

by  their  greatest  men; — by  great  leaders,  great  states- 
men, and  great  thinkers.  These  are  all  at  your  choice; 
and  life  is  short.  You  have  heard  as  much  before; — yet 
have  you  measured  and  mapped  out  this  short  life  and 
its  possibilities?  Do  you  know,  if  you  read  this,  that 
you  cannot  read  that — that  what  you  lose  to-day  you 
cannot  gain  to-morrow?  Will  you  go  and  gossip  with 
your  housemaid,  or  your  stable-boy,  when  you  may  talk 
with  queens  and  kings;  or  flatter  yourselves  that  it  is 
with  any  worthy  consciousness  of  your  own  claims  to 
respect  that  you  jostle  with  the  common  crowd  for  entree 
here,  and  audience  there,  when  all  the  while  this  eternal 
court  is  open  to  you,  with  its  society  wide  as  the  world, 
multitudinous  as  its  days,  the  chosen,  and  the  mighty,  of 
every  place  and  time?  Into  that  you  may  enter  always; 
in  that  you  may  take  fellowship  and  rank  according  to 
your  wish;  from  that,  once  entered  into  it,  you  can  never 
be  outcast  but  by  your  own  fault;  by  your  aristocracy  of 
companionship  there,  your  own  inherent  aristocracy  will 
be  assuredly  tested,  and  the  motives  with  which  you  strive 
to  take  high  place  in  the  society  of  the  living,  measured, 
as  to  all  the  truth  and  sincerity  that  are  in  them,  by  the 
place  you  desire  to  take  in  this  company  of  the  dead. 

"The  place  you  desire,"  and  the  place  you  fit  yourself 
for,  I  must  also  say;  because,  observe,  this  court  of  the 
past  differs  from  all  living  aristocracy  in  this: — it  is  open 
to  labor  and  to  merit,  but  to  nothing  else.  No  wealth 
will  bribe,  no  name  overawe,  no  artifice  deceive,  the 
guardian  of  those  Elysian  gates.  In  the  deep  sense,  no 
vile  or  vulgar  person  ever  enters  there.  At  the  portieres 
of  that  silent  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  there  is  but  brief 
question,  "Do  you  deserve  to  enter?  Pass.  Do  you 
ask  to  be  the  companion  of  nobles  ?  Make  yourself  noble, 
and  you  shall  be.  Do  you  long  for  the  conversation  of  the 
wise?  Learn  to  understand  it,  and  you  shall  hear  it. 


JOHN  RUSKIN  181 

But  on  other  terms? — No.  If  you  will  not  rise  to  us,  we 
cannot  stoop  to  you.  The  living  lord  may  assume  cour- 
tesy, the  living  philosopher  explain  his  thought  to  you 
with  considerable  pain;  but  here  we  neither  feign  nor  in- 
terpret; you  must  rise  to  the  level  of  our  thoughts  if  you 
would  be  gladdened  by  them,  and  share  our  feelings,  if 
you  would  recognize  our  presence." 

This,  then,  is  what  you  have  to  do,  and  I  admit  that  it 
is  much.  You  must,  in  a  word,  love  these  people,  if  you 
are  to  be  among  them.  No  ambition  is  of  any  use. 
They  scorn  your  ambition.  You  must  love  them,  and 
show  your  love  in  these  two  following  ways. 

I.  First,  by  a  true  desire  to  be  taught  by  them,  and  to 
enter  into  their  thoughts.  To  enter  into  theirs,  observe; 
not  to  find  your  own  expressed  by  them.  If  the  person 
who  wrote  the  book  is  not  wiser  than  you,  you  need  not 
read  it;  if  he  be,  he  will  think  differently  from  you  in 
many  respects. 

Very  ready  we  are  to  say  of  a  book,  "How  good  this  is 
—that's  exactly  what  I  think !"  But  the  right  feeling  is, 
"How  strange  that  is!  I  never  thought  of  that  before, 
and  yet  I  see  it  is  true;  or  if  I  do  not  now,  I  hope  I  shall, 
some  day."  But  whether  thus  submissively  or  not,  at 
least  be  sure  that  you  go  to  the  author  to  get  at  his  mean- 
ing, not  to  find  yours.  Judge  it  afterward,  if  you  think 
yourself  qualified  to  do  so;  but  ascertain  it  first.  And  be 
sure  also,  if  the  author  is  worth  anything,  that  you  will 
not  get  at  his  meaning  all  at  once; — nay,  that  at  his  whole 
meaning  you  will  not  for  a  long  time  arrive  in  any  wise. 
Not  that  he  does  not  say  what  he  means,  and  in  strong 
words  too;  but  he  cannot  say  it  all;  and  what  is  more 
strange,  will  not,  but  in  a  hidden  way  and  in  parables,  in 
order  that  he  may  be  sure  you  want  it.  I  cannot  quite 
see  the  reason  of  this,  nor  analyze  that  cruel  reticence  in 
the  breasts  of  wise  men  which  makes  them  always  hide 


182  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

their  deeper  thought.  They  do  not  give  it  to  you  by 
way  of  help,  but  of  reward,  and  will  make  themselves  sure 
that  you  deserve  it  before  they  allow  you  to  reach  it. 
But  it  is  the  same  with  the  physical  type  of  wisdom,  gold. 
There  seems,  to  you  and  me,  no  reason  why  the  electric 
forces  of  the  earth  should  not  carry  whatever  there  is  of 
gold  within  it  at  once  to  the  mountain  tops,  so  that  kings 
and  people  might  know  that  all  the  gold  they  could  get 
was  there;  and  without  any  trouble  of  digging,  or  anxiety, 
or  chance,  or  waste  of  time,  cut  it  away,  and  coin  as 
much  as  they  needed.  But  Nature  does  not  manage  it 
so.  She  puts  it  in  little  fissures  in  the  earth,  nobody 
knows  where:  you  may  dig  long  and  find  none;  you  must 
dig  painfully  to  find  any. 

And  it  is  just  the  same  with  men's  best  wisdom.  When 
you  come  to  a  good  book,  you  must  ask  yourself,  "Am 
I  inclined  to  work  as  an  Australian  miner  would?  Are 
my  pickaxes  and  shovels  in  good  order,  and  am  I  in  good 
trim  myself,  my  sleeves  well  up  to  the  elbow,  and  my 
breath  good,  and  my  temper?"  And,  keeping  the  figure 
a  little  longer,  even  at  cost  of  tiresomeness,  for  it  is  a 
thoroughly  useful  one,  the  metal  you  are  in  search  of 
being  the  author's  mind  or  meaning,  his  words  are  as  the 
rock  which  you  have  to  crush  and  smelt  in  order  to  get  at 
it.  And  your  pickaxes  are  your  own  care,  wit,  and  learn- 
ing; your  smelting-furnace  is  your  own  thoughtful  soul. 
Do  not  hope  to  get  at  any  good  author's  meaning  without 
those  tools  and  that  fire;  often  you  will  need  sharpest, 
finest  chiselling,  and  patientest  fusing,  before  you  can 
gather  one  grain  of  the  metal. 

And,  therefore,  first  of  all,  I  tell  you,  earnestly  and 
authoritatively,  (I  know  I  am  right  in  this,)  you  must  get 
into  the  habit  of  looking  intensely  at  words,  and  assuring 
yourself  of  their  meaning,  syllable  by  syllable — nay  let- 
ter by  letter.  For  though  it  is  only  by  reason  of  the 


JOHN  RUSKIN  183 

opposition  of  letters  in  the  function  of  signs,  to  sounds  in 
functions  of  signs,  that  the  study  of  books  is  called  "litera- 
ture," and  that  a  man  versed  in  it  is  called,  by  the  con- 
sent of  nations,  a  man  of  letters  instead  of  a  man  of  books, 
or  of  words,  you  may  yet  connect  with  that  accidental 
nomenclature  this  real  principle; — that  you  might  read 
all  the  books  in  the  British  Museum  (if  you  could  live 
long  enough),  and  remain  an  utterly  "illiterate,"  unedu- 
cated person;  but  that  if  you  read  ten  pages  of  a  good 
book,  letter  by  letter, — that  is  to  say,  with  real  accuracy, 
— you  are  for  evermore  in  some  measure  an  educated 
person.  The  entire  difference  between  education  and 
non-education  (as  regards  the  merely  intellectual  part  of 
it),  consists  in  this  accuracy.  A  well-educated  gentleman 
may  not  know  many  languages, — may  not  be  able  to 
speak  any  but  his  own, — may  have  read  very  few  books. 
But  whatever  language  he  knows,  he  knows  precisely; 
whatever  word  he  pronounces  he  pronounces  rightly; 
above  all,  he  is  learned  in  the  peerage  of  words;  knows  the 
words  of  true  descent  and  ancient  blood  at  a  glance,  from 
words  of  modern  canaille;  remembers  all  their  ancestry 
— their  intermarriages,  distantest  relationships,  and  the 
extent  to  which  they  were  admitted,  and  offices  they  held, 
among  the  national  noblesse  of  words  at  any  time,  and  in 
any  country.  .  .  . 

Now,  in  order  to  deal  with  words  rightly,  this  is  the 
habit  you  must  form.  Nearly  every  word  in  your  lan- 
guage has  been  first  a  word  of  some  other  language— of 
Saxon,  German,  French,  Latin,  or  Greek  (not  to  speak  of 
eastern  and  primitive  dialects).  And  many  words  have 
been  aU  these;— that  is  to  say,  have  been  Greek  first, 
Latin  next,  French  or  German  next,  and  English  last; 
undergoing  a  certain  change  of  sense  and  use  on  the  lips 
of  each  nation;  but  retaining  a  deep  vital  meaning  which 
all  good  scholars  feel  in  employing  them,  even  at  this  day. 


184  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

If  you  do  not  know  the  Greek  alphabet,  learn  it;  young 
or  old — girl  or  boy — whoever  you  may  be,  if  you  think  of 
reading  seriously  (which,  of  course,  implies  that  you  have 
some  leisure  at  command),  learn  your  Greek  alphabet; 
then  get  good  dictionaries  of  all  these  languages,  and 
whenever  you  are  in  doubt  about  a  word,  hunt  it  down 
patiently.  Read  Max  Miiller's  lectures  thoroughly,  to 
begin  with;  and,  after  that,  never  let  a  word  escape  you 
that  looks  suspicious.  It  is  severe  work;  but  you  will 
find  it,  even  at  first,  interesting,  and  at  last,  endlessly 
amusing.  And  the  general  gain  to  }rour  character,  in 
power  and  precision,  will  be  quite  incalculable. 

Mind,  this  does  not  imply  knowing,  or  trying  to  know, 
Greek,  or  Latin,  or  French.  It  takes  a  whole  life  to 
learn  any  language  perfectly.  But  you  can  easily  as- 
certain the  meanings  through  which  the  English  word 
has  passed;  and  those  which  in  a  good  writer's  work  it 
must  still  bear. 

And  now,  merely  for  example's  sake,  I  will,  with  your 
permission,  read  a  few  lines  of  a  true  book  with  you, 
carefully;  and  see  what  will  come  out  of  them.  I  will 
take  a  book  perfectly  known  to  you  all;  no  English  words 
are  more  familiar  to  us,  yet  nothing  perhaps  has  been 
less  read  with  sincerity.  I  will  take  these  few  following 
lines  of  "Lycidas": 

"  Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain), 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake, 
How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold ! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest; 


JOHN  RUSKIN  185 

Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else,  the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs ! 

What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they?    They  are  sped; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 

But,  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said." 

Let  us  think  over  this  passage,  and  examine  its  words. 

First,  is  it  not  singular  to  find  Milton  assigning  to  St. 
Peter,  not  only  his  full  episcopal  function,  but  the  very 
types  of  it  which  Protestants  usually  refuse  most  pas- 
sionately? His  "mitred"  locks !  Milton  was  no  Bishop- 
lover;  how  comes  St.  Peter  to  be  "mitred"?  "Two 
massy  keys  he  bore."  Is  this,  then,  the  power  of  the 
keys  claimed  by  the  Bishops  of  Rome,  and  is  it  acknowl- 
edged here  by  Milton  only  in  a  poetical  license  for  the 
sake  of  its  picturesqueness,  that  he  may  get  the  gleam 
of  the  golden  keys  to  help  his  effect?  Do  not  think  it. 
Great  men  do  not  play  stage  tricks  with  doctrines  of  life 
and  death:  only  little  men  do  that.  Milton  means  what 
he  says;  and  means  it  with  his  might  too — is  going  to 
put  the  whole  strength  of  his  spirit  presently  into  the 
saying  of  it.  For  though  not  a  lover  of  false  bishops,  he 
was  a  lover  of  true  ones;  and  the  Lake-pilot  is  here,  in 
his  thoughts,  the  type  and  head  of  true  episcopal  power. 
For  Milton  reads  that  text,  "I  will  give  unto  thee  the 
keys  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven"  quite  honestly.  Puritan 
though  he  be,  he  would  not  blot  it  out  of  the  book  be- 
cause there  have  been  bad  bishops;  nay,  in  order  to 
understand  him,  we  must  understand  that  verse  first;  it 
will  not  do  to  eye  it  askance,  or  whisper  it  under  our 
breath,  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  of  an  adverse  sect.  It  is 


186  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

a  solemn,  universal  assertion,  deeply  to  be  kept  in  mind 
by  all  sects.  But  perhaps  we  shall  be  better  able  to 
reason  on  it  if  we  go  on  a  little  farther,  and  come  back 
to  it.  For  clearly,  this  marked  insistence  on  the  power 
of  the  true  episcopate  is  to  make  us  feel  more  weightily 
what  is  to  be  charged  against  the  false  claimants  of  epis- 
copate; or  generally,  against  false  claimants  of  power  and 
rank  in  the  body  of  the  clergy;  they  who,  "for  their  bellies' 
sake,  creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold." 

Do  not  think  Milton  uses  those  three  words  to  fill  up 
his  verse,  as  a  loose  writer  would.  He  needs  all  the 
three;  specially  those  three,  and  no  more  than  those — 
" creep/'  and  "intrude,"  and  "climb";  no  other  words 
would  or  could  serve  the  turn,  and  no  more  could  be 
added.  For  they  exhaustively  comprehend  the  three 
classes,  correspondent  to  the  three  characters,  of  men 
who  dishonestly  seek  ecclesiastical  power.  First,  those 
who  "creep11  into  the  fold;  who  do  not  care  for  office,  nor 
name,  but  for  secret  influence,  and  do  all  things  occultly 
and  cunningly,  consenting  to  any  servility  of  office  or  con- 
duct, so  only  that  they  may  intimately  discern,  and  un- 
awares direct,  the  minds  of  men.  Then  those  who  "in- 
trude" (thrust,  that  is)  themselves  into  the  fold,  who 
by  natural  insolence  of  heart,  and  stout  eloquence  of 
tongue,  and  fearlessly  perseverant  self-assertion,  obtain 
hearing  and  authority  with  the  common  crowd.  Lastly, 
those  who  "climb,"  who  by  labor  and  learning,  both 
stout  and  sound,  but  selfishly  exerted  in  the  cause  of  their 
own  ambition,  gain  high  dignities  and  authorities,  and 
become  "lords  over  the  heritage,"  though  not  "ensamples 
to  the  flock." 

Now  go  on: — 

"Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast; 
Blind  mouths — " 


JOHN  RUSKIN  187 

I  pause  again,  for  this  is  a  strange  expression;  a  broken 
metaphor,  one  might  think,  careless  and  unscholarly. 

Not  so:  its  very  audacity  and  pithiness  are  intended  to 
make  us  look  close  at  the  phrase  and  remember  it.  Those 
two  monosyllables  express  the  precisely  accurate  con- 
traries of  right  character,  in  the  two  great  offices  of  the 
Church — those  of  bishop  and  pastor. 

A  Bishop  means  a  person  who  sees. 

A  Pastor  means  one  who  feeds. 

The  most  unbishoply  character  a  man  can  have  is 
therefore  to  be  Blind. 

The  most  unpastoral  is,  instead  of  feeding,  to  want  to 
be  fed, — to  be  a  Mouth. 

Take  the  two  reverses  together,  and  you  have  "blind 
mouths."  We  may  advisably  follow  out  this  idea  a 
little.  Nearly  all  the  evils  in  the  Church  have  arisen 
from  bishops  desiring  power  more  than  light.  They  want 
authority,  not  outlook.  Whereas  their  real  office  is  not 
to  rule;  though  it  may  be  vigorously  to  exhort  and  re- 
buke; it  is  the  king's  office  to  rule;  the  bishop's  office  is 
to  oversee  the  flock;  to  number  it,  sheep  by  sheep;  to  be 
ready  always  to  give  full  account  of  it.  Now  it  is  clear 
he  cannot  give  account  of  the  souls,  if  he  has  not  so  much 
as  numbered  the  bodies  of  his  flock.  The  first  thing, 
therefore,  that  a  bishop  has  to  do  is  at  least  to  put  him- 
self in  a  position  in  which,  at  any  moment,  he  can  ob- 
tain the  history  from  childhood  of  every  living  soul  in 
his  diocese,  and  of  its  present  state.  Down  in  that  back 
street,  Bill  and  Nancy,  knocking  each  other's  teeth  out ! 
—Does  the  bishop  know  all  about  it?  Has  he  his  eye 
upon  them?  Has  he  had  his  eye  upon  them?  Can  he 
circumstantially  explain  to  us  how  Bill  got  into  the  habit 
of  beating  Nancy  about  the  head?  If  he  cannot,  he  is 
no  bishop,  though  he  had  a  mitre  as  high  as  Salisbury 
steeple;  he  is  no  bishop— he  has  sought  to  be  at  the  helm 


188  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

instead  of  the  masthead;  he  has  no  sight  of  things. 
"Nay,"  you  say,  it  is  not  his  duty  to  look  after  Bill  in 
the  back  street.  What !  the  fat  sheep  that  have  full 
fleeces — you  think  it  is  only  those  he  should  look  after, 
while  (go  back  to  your  Milton)  "the  hungry  sheep  look 
up,  and  are  not  fed,  besides  what  the  grim  wolf,  with 
privy  paw"  (bishops  knowing  nothing  about  it)  "daily 
devours  apace,  and  nothing  said"? 

"But  that's  not  our  idea  of  a  bishop."  Perhaps  not; 
but  it  was  St.  Paul's;  and  it  was  Milton's.  They  may  be 
right,  or  we  may  be;  but  we  must  not  think  we  are  read- 
ing either  one  or  the  other  by  putting  our  meaning  into 
their  words. 

I  go  on. 

"But,  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw." 

This  is  to  meet  the  vulgar  answer  that  "if  the  poor  are 
not  looked  after  in  their  bodies,  they  are  in  their  souls; 
they  have  spiritual  food." 

And  Milton  says,  "They  have  no  such  thing  as  spiri- 
tual food;  they  are  only  swollen  with  wind."  At  first 
you  may  think  that  is  a  coarse  type,  and  an  obscure  one. 
But  again,  it  is  a  quite  literally  accurate  one.  Take  up 
your  Latin  and  Greek  dictionaries,  and  find  out  the  mean- 
ing of  "Spirit."  It  is  only  a  contraction  of  the  Latin 
word  "breath,"  and  an  indistinct  translation  of  the 
Greek  word  for  "wind."  The  same  word  is  used  in  writ- 
ing, "The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth";  and  in  writing, 
"So  is  every  one  that  is  born  of  the  Spirit";  born  of  the 
breath,  that  is;  for  it  means  the  breath  of  God,  in  soul 
and  body.  We  have  the  true  sense  of  it  in  our  words 
"inspiration"  and  "expire."  Now,  there  are  two  kinds 
of  breath  with  which  the  flock  may  be  filled;  God's  breath, 
and  man's.  The  breath  of  God  is  health,  and  life,  and 
peace  to  them,  as  the  air  of  heaven  is  to  the  flocks  on  the 


JOHN  RUSKIN  189 

hills;  but  man's  breath — the  word  which  he  calls  spiritual, 
—is  disease  and  contagion  to  them,  as  the  fog  of  the  fen. 
They  rot  inwardly  with  it;  they  are  puffed  up  by  it,  as  a 
dead  body  by  the  vapors  of  its  own  decomposition.  This 
is  literally  true  of  all  false  religious  teaching;  the  first  and 
last,  and  fatalest  sign  of  it  is  that  "puffing  up."  Your 
converted  children,  who  teach  their  parents;  your  con- 
verted convicts,  who  teach  honest  men;  your  converted 
dunces,  who,  having  lived  in  cretinous  stupefaction  half 
their  lives,  suddenly  awakening  to  the  fact  of  there  being 
a  God,  fancy  themselves  therefore  His  peculiar  people 
and  messengers;  your  sectarians  of  every  species,  small 
and  great,  Catholic  or  Protestant,  of  high  church  or  low, 
in  so  far  as  they  think  themselves  exclusively  in  the 
right  and  others  wrong;  and  pre-eminently,  in  every  sect, 
those  who  hold  that  men  can  be  saved  by  thinking  rightly 
instead  of  doing  rightly,  by  word  instead  of  act,  and  wish 
instead  of  work: — these  are  the  true  fog-children—clouds, 
these,  without  water;  bodies,  these,  of  putrescent  vapor 
and  skin,  without  blood  or  flesh:  blown  bagpipes  for  the 
fiends  to  pipe  with— corrupt,  and  corrupting,— "Swollen 
with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw." 

Lastly,  let  us  return  to  the  lines  respecting  the  power 
of  the  keys,  for  now  we  can  understand  them.  Note  the 
difference  between  Milton  and  Dante  in  their  interpreta- 
tion of  this  power:  for  once,  the  latter  is  weaker  in  thought; 
he  supposes  both  the  keys  to  be  of  the  gate  of  heaven; 
one  is  of  gold,  the  other  of  silver:  they  are  given  by  St. 
Peter  to  the  sentinel  angel;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  deter- 
mine the  meaning  either  of  the  substances  of  the  three 
steps  of  the  gate,  or  of  the  two  keys.  But  Milton  makes 
one,  of  gold,  the  key  of  heaven;  the  other,  of  iron,  the  key 
of  the  prison,  in  which  the  wicked  teachers  are  to  I 
bound  who  "have  taken  away  the  key  of  knowledge,  yet 
entered  not  in  themselves." 


190  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

We  have  seen  that  the  duties  of  bishop  and  pastor  are 
to  see,  and  feed;  and,  of  all  who  do  so,  it  is  said,  "He 
that  watereth,  shall  be  watered  also  himself."  But  the 
reverse  is  truth  also.  He  that  watereth  not,  shall  be 
withered  himself,  and  he  that  seeth  not,  shall  himself  be 
shut  out  of  sight, — shut  into  the  perpetual  prison-house. 
And  that  prison  opens  here,  as  well  as  hereafter:  he  who 
is  to  be  bound  in  heaven  must  first  be  bound  on  earth. 
That  command  to  the  strong  angels,  of  which  the  rock- 
apostle  is  the  image,  "Take  him,  and  bind  him  hand  and 
foot,  and  cast  him  out,"  issues,  in  its  measure,  against  the 
teacher,  for  every  help  withheld,  and  for  every  truth 
refused,  and  for  every  falsehood  enforced;  so  that  he  is 
more  strictly  fettered  the  more  he  fetters,  and  farther 
outcast,  as  he  more  and  more  misleads,  till  at  last  the 
bars  of  the  iron  cage  close  upon  him,  and  as  "the  golden 
opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain." 

We  have  got  something  out  of  the  lines,  I  think,  and 
much  more  is  yet  to  be  found  in  them;  but  we  have  done 
enough  by  way  of  example  of  the  kind  of  word-by-word 
examination  of  your  author  which  is  rightly  called  "read- 
ing"; watching  every  accent  and  expression,  and  putting 
ourselves  always  in  the  author's  place,  annihilating  our 
own  personality,  and  seeking  to  enter  into  his,  so  as  to 
be  able  assuredly  to  say,  "Thus  Milton  thought,"  not 
"Thus  I  thought,  in  mis-reading  Milton." 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY 

BUNYAN'S  "PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS" 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  (1800-1859)  was  one  of 
the  eminent  writers  of  the  Victorian  age.  He  was  educated 
at  Cambridge  University,  where  he  was  distinguished 
as  a  debater,  and  famous  for  his  ability  to  remember 
everything  that  he  read,  often  in  the  exact  words  of  the 
book.  To  the  Edinburgh  Review  he  contributed  a  num- 
ber of  essays  on  historical  and  literary  topics.  He  served 
several  terms  in  Parliament,  had  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet, 
and  went  to  India  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Council. 
He  wrote  a  History  of  England  that  was  so  popular  that 
its  sales  exceeded  those  of  the  novels  of  the  time.  He 
also  wrote  some  stirring  ballads  called  the  Lays  of  Ancient 
Rome,  and  contributed  to  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica 
articles  upon  Samuel  Johnson,  Bunyan,  and  Goldsmith. 

Macaulay  had  the  power  to  make  his  readers  see  the 
persons  and  scenes  he  described.  His  marvellous  memory 
enabled  him,  as  in  this  essay,  to  bring  in  a  mass  of  details. 
Yet  he  never  lets  the  detail  become  confusing;  he  carries 
us  along  as  over  a  well-marked  road,  we  know  where  we 
are,  and  he  knows  exactly  where  he  is  taking  us.  His 
style  is  always  clear;  he  is  fond  of  using  balanced  sentences 
and  sharp  antitheses;  his  statements  are  always  positive; 
when  he  makes  a  general  statement  he  usually  follows 
it  by  a  concrete  example.  All  these  characteristics  are 
seen  in  the  essay  on  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.  It 
was  first  published  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  December, 
1832. 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY 

BUNYAN'S  "  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS  "  * 

(From  Macaulay's  Literary  Essays) 

This  is  an  eminently  beautiful  and  splendid  edition  of 
a  book  which  well  deserves  all  that  the  printer  and  the 
engraver  can  do  for  it.  The  Life  of  Bunyan  is,  of  course, 
not  a  performance  which  can  add  much  to  the  literary 
reputation  of  such  a  writer  as  Mr.  Southey.  But  it  is 
written  in  excellent  English,  and,  for  the  most  part,  in 
an  excellent  spirit.  Mr.  Southey  propounds,  we  need 
not  say,  many  opinions  from  which  we  altogether  dissent; 
and  his  attempts  to  excuse  the  odious  persecution  to 
which  Bunyan  was  subjected  have  sometimes  moved  our 
indignation.  But  we  will  avoid  this  topic.  We  are  at 
present  much  more  inclined  to  join  in  paying  homage  to 
the  genius  of  a  great  man  than  to  engage  in  a  controversy 
concerning  Church  government  and  toleration. 

We  must  not  pass  without  notice  the  engravings  with 
which  this  volume  is  decorated.  Some  of  Mr.  Heath's 
woodcuts  are  admirably  designed  and  executed.  Mr. 
Martin's  illustrations  do  not  please  us  quite  so  well.  His 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  is  not  that  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death  which  Bunyan  imagined.  At  all 
events,  it  is  not  that  dark  and  horrible  glen  which  has 
from  childhood  been  in  our  mind's  eye.  The  valley  is  a, 
cavern:  the  quagmire  is  a  lake:  the  straight  path  runs 
zigzag:  and  Christian  appears  like  a  speck  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  immense  vault.  We  miss,  too,  those  hideous. 

*  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  urith  a  Life  of  John  Bunyan.  By  Robert. 
Southey,  Esq.,  LL.D.,  Poet-Laureate.  Illustrated  with  Engrav- 
ings.  8vo.  London:  1830. 

193 


194  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

forms  which  make  so  striking  a  part  of  the  description 
of  Bunyan,  and  which  Salvator  Rosa  would  have  loved 
to  draw. 

The  characteristic  peculiarity  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress 
is  that  it  is  the  only  work  of  its  kind  which  possesses  a 
strong  human  interest.  Other  allegories  only  amuse  the 
fancy.  The  allegory  of  Bunyan  has  been  read  by  many 
thousands  with  tears.  There  are  some  good  allegories 
in  Johnson's  works,  and  some  of  still  higher  merit  by 
Addison.  In  these  performances  there  is,  perhaps,  as 
much  wit  and  ingenuity  as  in  the  Pilgrim' 's  Progress.  But 
the  pleasure  which  is  produced  by  the  Vision  of  Mirza,* 
the  Vision  of  Theodore,  the  Genealogy  of  Wit,  or  the  Con- 
test between  Rest  and  Labor,  is  exactly  similar  to  the 
pleasure  which  we  derive  from  one  of  Cowley's  odes  or 
from  a  canto  of  Hudibras.  It  is  a  pleasure  which  be- 
longs wholly  to  the  understanding,  and  in  which  the 
feelings  have  no  part  whatever.  Nay,  even  Spenser 
himself,  though  assuredly  one  of  the  greatest  poets  that 
ever  lived,  could  not  succeed  in  the  attempt  to  make 
allegory  interesting.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  lavished  the 
riches  of  his  mind  on  the  House  of  Pride  and  the  House 
of  Temperance.  One  unpardonable  fault,  the  fault  of 
tediousness,  pervades  the  whole  of  the  Fairy  Queen.  We 
become  sick  of  Cardinal  Virtues  and  Deadly  Sins,  and  long 
for  the  society  of  plain  men  and  women.  Of  the  per- 
sons who  read  the  first  canto,  not  one  in  ten  reaches  the 
end  of  the  first  book,  and  not  one  in  a  hundred  perse- 
veres to  the  end  of  the  poem.  Very  few  and  very  weary 
are  those  who  are  in  at  the  death  of  the  Blatant  Beast. 
If  the  last  six  books,  which  are  said  to  have  been  destroyed 
in  Ireland,  had  been  preserved,  we  doubt  whether  any 
heart  less  stout  than  that  of  a  commentator  would  have 
held  out  to  the  end. 

*  This  and  the  following  are  titles  of  Addison's  Spectator  papers. 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY  195 

It  is  not  so  with  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  That  won- 
derful book,  while  it  obtains  admiration  from  the  most 
fastidious  critics,  is  loved  by  those  who  are  too  simple  to 
admire  it.  Dr.  Johnson,  all  whose  studies  were  desul- 
tory, and  who  hated,  as  he  said,  to  read  books  through, 
made  an  exception  in  favor  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
That  work,  he  said,  was  one  of  the  two  or  three  works 
which  he  wished  longer.  It  was  by  no  common  merit 
that  the  illiterate  sectary  extracted  praise  like  this  from 
the  most  pedantic  of  critics  and  the  most  bigoted  of  Tories. 
In  the  wildest  parts  of  Scotland  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  is 
the  delight  of  the  peasantry.  In  every  nursery  the  Pil- 
grim's Progress  is  a  greater  favorite  than  Jack  the  Giant- 
killer.  Every  reader  knows  the  straight  and  narrow  path 
as  well  as  he  knows  a  road  in  which  he  has  gone  backwar  1 
and  forward  a  hundred  times.  This  is  the  highest  mir- 
acle of  genius, — that  things  which  are  not  should  be  as 
though  they  were, — that  the  imaginations  of  one  mind 
should  become  the  personal  recollections  of  another. 
And  this  miracle  the  tinker  has  wrought.  There  is  no 
ascent,  no  declivity,  no  resting  place,  no  turnstile,  with 
which  we  are  not  perfectly  acquainted.  The  wicket  gate, 
and  the  desolate  swamp  which  separates  it  from  the  City 
of  Destruction,  the  long  line  of  road,  as  straight  as  a  rule 
can  make  it,  the  Interpreter's  house  and  all  its  fair  shows, 
the  prisoner  in  the  iron  cage,  the  palace,  at  the  doors  of 
which  armed  men  kept  guard,  and  on  the  battlements  of 
which  walked  persons  clothed  all  in  gold,  the  cross  and 
the  sepulchre,  the  steep  hill  and  the  pleasant  arbor,  the 
stately  front  of  the  House  Beautiful  by  the  wayside,  the 
low  green  valley  of  Humiliation,  rich  with  grass  and  cov- 
ered with  flocks,  all  are  as  weU  known  to  us  as  the  sights 
of  our  own  street.  Then  we  come  to  the  narrow  place 
where  Apollyon  strode  right  across  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  way,  to  stop  the  journey  of  Christian,  and  where 


196  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

afterward  the  pillar  was  set  up  to  testify  how  bravely 
the  pilgrim  had  fought  the  good  fight.  As  we  advance, 
the  valley  becomes  deeper  and  deeper.  The  shade  of 
the  precipices  on  both  sides  falls  blacker  and  blacker. 
The  clouds  gather  overhead.  Doleful  voices,  the  clank- 
ing of  chains,  and  the  rushing  of  many  feet  to  and  fro, 
are  heard  through  the  darkness.  The  way,  hardly  dis- 
cernible in  gloom,  runs  close  by  the  mouth  of  the  burning 
pit,  which  sends  forth  its  flames,  its  noisome  smoke,  and 
its  hideous  shapes,  to  terrify  the  adventurer.  Thence  he 
goes  on,  amidst  the  snares  and  pitfalls,  with  the  mangled 
bodies  of  those  who  have  perished  lying  in  the  ditch  by 
his  side.  At  the  end  of  the  long  dark  valley  he  passes 
the  dens  in  which  the  old  giants  dwelt,  amidst  the  bones 
of  those  whom  they  had  slain. 

Then  the  road  passes  straight  on  through  a  waste  moor, 
till  at  length  the  towers  of  a  distant  city  appear  before 
the  traveller;  and  soon  he  is  in  the  midst  of  the  innumer- 
able multitudes  of  Vanity  Fair.  There  are  the  jugglers 
and  the  apes,  the  shops  and  the  puppet-shows.  There 
are  Italian  Row,  and  French  Row,  and  Spanish  Row,  and 
British  Row,  with  their  crowds  of  buyers,  sellers,  and 
loungers,  jabbering  all  the  languages  of  the  earth. 

Thence  we  go  on  by  the  little  hill  of  the  silver-mine, 
and  through  the  meadow  of  lilies,  along  the  bank  of  that 
pleasant  river  which  is  bordered  on  both  sides  by  fruit- 
trees.  On  the  left  branches  off  the  path  leading  to  the 
horrible  castle,  the  courtyard  of  which  is  paved  with  the 
skulls  of  pilgrims;  and  right  onward  are  the  sheepfolds 
and  orchards  of  the  Delectable  Mountains. 

From  the  Delectable  Mountains,  the  way  lies  through 
the  fogs  and  briers  of  the  Enchanted  Ground,  with  here 
and  there  a  bed  of  soft  cushions  spread  under  a  green 
arbor.  And  beyond  is  the  land  of  Beulah,  where  the 
flowers,  the  grapes,  and  the  songs  of  birds  never  cease, 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY  197 

and  where  the  sun  shines  night  and  day.  Thence  are 
plainly  seen  the  golden  pavements  and  streets  of  pearl, 
on  the  other  side  of  that  black  and  cold  river  over  which 
there  is  no  bridge. 

All  the  stages  of  the  journey,  all  the  forms  which  cross 
or  overtake  the  pilgrims,  giants  and  hobgoblins,  ill- 
favored  ones  and  shining  ones,  the  tall,  comely,  swarthy 
Madam  Bubble,  with  her  great  purse  by  her  side,  and  her 
fingers  playing  with  the  money,  the  black  man  in  the 
bright  vesture,  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  and  my  Lord 
Hategood,  Mr.  Talkative,  and  Mrs.  Timorous,  all  are 
actually  existing  beings  to  us.  We  follow  the  travellers 
through  their  allegorical  progress  with  interest  not  in- 
ferior to  that  with  which  we  follow  Elizabeth  from  Siberia 
to  Moscow,  or  Jeanie  Deans  from  Edinburgh  to  London. 
Bunyan  is  almost  the  only  writer  who  ever  gave  to  the 
abstract  the  interest  of  the  concrete.  In  the  works  of 
many  celebrated  authors,  men  are  mere  personifications. 
We  have  not  an  Othello,  but  jealousy,  not  an  lago,  but 
perfidy,  not  a  Brutus,  but  patriotism.  The  mind  of 
Bunyan,  on  the  contrary,  was  so  imaginative  that  personi- 
fications, when  he  dealt  with  them,  became  men.  A 
dialogue  between  two  qualities,  in  his  dream,  has  more 
dramatic  effect  than  a  dialogue  between  two  human 
beings  in  most  plays. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress  undoubtedly  is  not  a  perfect 
allegory.  The  types  are  often  inconsistent  with  each 
other;  and  sometimes  the  allegorical  disguise  is  altogether 
thrown  off.  The  river,  for  example,  is  emblematic  of 
death;  and  we  are  told  that  every  human  being  must  pass 
through  the  river.  But  Faithful  does  not  pass  through 
it.  He  is  martyred,  not  in  shadow,  but  in  reality,  at 
Vanity  Fair.  Hopeful  talks  to  Christian  about  Esau's 
birthright  and  about  his  own  convictions  of  sin  as  Bun- 
yan might  have  talked  with  one  of  his  own  congregation. 


198  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

The  damsels  at  the  House  Beautiful  catechise  Christi- 
ana's boys,  as  any  good  ladies  might  catechise  any  boys 
at  a  Sunday-school.  But  we  do  not  believe  that  any 
man,  whatever  might  be  his  genius,  and  whatever  his 
good  luck,  could  long  continue  a  figurative  history  with- 
out falling  into  many  inconsistencies.  We  are  sure  that 
inconsistencies,  scarcely  less  gross  than  the  worst  into 
which  Bunyan  has  fallen,  may  be  found  in  the  shortest 
and  most  elaborate  allegories  of  the  Spectator  and  the 
Rambler.  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  *  and  the  History  of  John 
Bull  swarm  with  similar  errors,  if  the  name  of  error  can 
be  properly  applied  to  that  which  is  unavoidable.  It  is 
not  easy  to  make  a  simile  go  on  all  fours.  But  we  be- 
lieve that  no  human  ingenuity  could  produce  such  a 
centipede  as  a  long  allegory  in  which  the  correspondence 
between  the  outward  sign  and  the  thing  signified  should 
be  exactly  preserved.  Certainly  no  writer,  ancient  or 
modern,  has  yet  achieved  the  adventure.  The  best  thing, 
on  the  whole,  that  an  allegorist  can  do,  is  to  present  to 
his  readers  a  succession  of  analogies,  each  of  which  may 
separately  be  striking  and  happy,  without  looking  very 
nicely  to  see  whether  they  harmonize  with  each  other. 
This  Bunyan  has  done;  and,  though  a  minute  scrutiny 
may  detect  inconsistencies  in  every  page  of  his  tale,  the 
general  effect  which  the  tale  produces  on  all  persons, 
learned  and  unlearned,  proves  that  he  has  done  well. 
The  passages  which  it  is  most  difficult  to  defend  are  those 
in  which  he  altogether  drops  the  allegory,  and  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  his  pilgrims  religious  ejaculations  and  dis- 
quisitions better  suited  to  his  own  pulpit  at  Bedford  or 
Reading  than  to  the  Enchanted  Ground  or  the  Inter- 
preter's Garden.  Yet  even  these  passages,  though  we 
will  not  undertake  to  defend  them  against  the  objections 

*The  Tale  of  a  Tub  is  by  Jonathan  Swift;   the  History  of  John 
Butt  by  John  Arbuthnot.    Both  are  prose  allegories. 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY  199 

of  critics,  we  feel  that  we  could  ill  spare.  We  feel  that 
the  story  owes  much  of  its  charm  to  these  occasional 
glimpses  of  solemn  and  affecting  subjects,  which  will  not 
be  hidden,  which  force  themselves  through  the  veil,  and 
appear  before  us  in  their  native  aspect.  The  effect  is 
not  unlike  that  which  is  said  to  have  been  produced  on 
the  ancient  stage,  when  the  eyes  of  the  actor  were  seen 
flaming  through  his  mask,  and  giving  life  and  expression 
to  what  would  else  have  been  an  inanimate  and  uninter- 
esting disguise. 

It  is  very  amusing  and  very  instructive  to  compare 
the  Pilgrim1  s  Progress  with  the  Grace  Abounding.    The 
latter  work  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  remarkable  pieces 
of  autobiography  in  the  world.    It  is  a  full  and  open  con- 
fession of  the  fancies  which  passed  through  the  mind  of 
an  illiterate  man,  whose  affections  were  warm,  whose 
nerves  were  irritable,  whose  imagination  was  ungoverna- 
ble, and  who  was  under  the  influence  of  the  strongest 
religious  excitement.    In  whatever  age  Bunyan  had  lived, 
the  history  of  his  feelings  would,  in  all  probability,  have 
been  very  curious.     But  the  time  in  which  his  lot  was  cast 
was  the  time  of  a  great  stirring  of  the  human  mind.     A 
tremendous   burst   of  public  feeling,   produced   by  the 
tyranny  of  the  hierarchy,  menaced  the  old  ecclesiastical 
institutions  with  destruction.     To  the  gloomy  regularity 
of  one  intolerant  Church  had  succeeded  the  license  of  in- 
numerable sects,  drunk  with  the  sweet  and  heady  must 
of  their  new  liberty.    Fanaticism,  engendered  by  perse- 
cution and  destined  to  engender  persecution  in  turn, 
spread  rapidly  through  society.     Even  the  strongest  and 
most   commanding  minds  were  not  proof  against  this 
strange  taint.     Any  time  might  have  produced  George 
Fox  and  James  Naylor.     But  to  one  time  alone  belong 
the  frantic  delusions  of  such  a  statesman  as  Vane,  and  the 
hysterical  tears  of  such  a  soldier  as  Cromwell. 


200  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

The  history  of  Bunyan  is  the  history  of  a  most  excita- 
ble mind  in  an  age  of  excitement.  By  most  of  his  bi- 
ographers he  has  been  treated  with  gross  injustice.  They 
have  understood  in  a  popular  sense  all  those  strong  terms 
of  self-condemnation  which  he  employed  in  a  theological 
sense.  They  have,  therefore,  represented  him  as  an 
abandoned  wretch,  reclaimed  by  means  almost  mirac- 
ulous; or,  to  use  their  favorite  metaphor,  "as  a  brand 
plucked  from  the  burning."  Mr.  Ivimey  calls  him  the 
depraved  Bunyan,  and  the  wicked  tinker  of  Elstow. 
Surely  Mr.  Ivimey  ought  to  have  been  too  familiar  with 
the  bitter  accusations  which  the  most  pious  people  are  in 
the  habit  of  bringing  against  themselves,  to  understand 
literally  all  the  strong  expressions  which  are  to  be  found 
in  the  Grace  Abounding.  It  is  quite  clear,  as  Mr.  Southey 
most  justly  remarks,  that  Bunyan  never  was  a  vicious 
man.  He  married  very  early;  and  he  solemnly  declares 
that  he  was  strictly  faithful  to  his  wife.  He  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  a  drunkard.  He  owns,  indeed,  that 
when  a  boy  he  never  spoke  without  an  oath.  But  a 
single  admonition  cured  him  of  this  bad  habit  for  life; 
and  the  cure  must  have  been  wrought  early;  for  at  eigh- 
teen he  was  in  the  army  of  the  Parliament;  and,  if  he  had 
carried  the  vice  of  profaneness  into  that  service,  he  would 
doubtless  have  received  something  more  than  an  admoni- 
tion from  Sergeant  Bind-their-kings-in-chains,  or  Captain 
Hew -Agag- in- pieces -bef ore -the-Lord.  Bell-ringing,  and 
playing  at  hockey  on  Sundays,  seem  to  have  been  the 
worst  vices  of  this  depraved  tinker.  They  would  have 
passed  for  virtues  with  Archbishop  Laud.  It  is  b^uite  clear 
that,  from  a  very  early  age,  Bunyan  was  a  man  of  a  strict 
life  and  of  a  tender  conscience.  "He  had  been,"  says 
Mr.  Southey,  "a  blackguard."  Even  this  we  think  too 
hard  a  censure.  Bunyan  was  not,  we  admit,  so  fine  a 
gentleman  as  Lord  Digby;  but  he  was  a  blackguard  no 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY  201 

otherwise  than  as  every  tinker  that  ever  lived  has  been 
a  blackguard.  Indeed,  Mr.  Southey  acknowledges  this. 
"Such  he  might  have  been  expected  to  be  by  his  birth, 
breeding,  and  vocation.  Scarcely,  indeed,  by  possibility, 
could  he  have  been  otherwise."  A  man  whose  manners 
and  sentiments  are  decidedly  below  those  of  his  class 
deserves  to  be  called  a  blackguard.  But  it  is  surely  un- 
fair to  apply  so  strong  a  word  of  reproach  to  one  who  is 
only  what  the  great  mass  of  every  community  must  in- 
evitably be. 

Those  horrible  internal  conflicts  which  Bunyan  has 
described  with  so  much  power  of  language  prove,  not  that 
he  was  a  worse  man  than  his  neighbors,  but  that  his  mind 
was  constantly  occupied  by  religious  considerations,  that 
his  fervor  exceeded  his  knowledge,  and  that  his  imagina- 
tion exercised  despotic  power  over  his  body  and  mind. 
He  heard  voices  from  heaven.  He  saw  strange  visions  of 
distant  hills,  pleasant  and  sunny  as  his  own  Delectable 
Mountains.  From  those  abodes  he  was  shut  out,  and 
placed  in  a  dark  and  horrible  wilderness,  where  he  wan- 
dered through  ice  and  snow,  striving  to  make  his  way 
into  the  happy  region  of  light.  At  one  time  he  was  seized 
with  an  inclination  to  work  miracles.  At  another  time 
he  thought  himself  actually  possessed  by  the  devil.  He 
could  distinguish  the  blasphemous  whispers.  He  felt  his 
infernal  enemy  pulling  at  his  clothes  behind  him.  He 
spurned  with  his  feet  and  struck  with  his  hands  at  the 
destroyer.  Sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  sell  his  part 
in  the  salvation  of  mankind.  Sometimes  a  violent  im- 
pulse urged  him  to  start  up  from  his  food,  to  fall  on  his 
knees,  and  to  break  forth  into  prayer.  At  length  he 
fancied  that  he  had  committed  the  unpardonable 
His  agony  convulsed  his  robust  frame.  It  was,  he  says, 
as  if  his  breast-bone  would  split;  and  this  he  took  for  a 
sign  that  he  was  destined  to  burst  asunder  like  Judas. 


202  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

The  agitation  of  his  nerves  made  all  his  movements 
tremulous;  and  this  trembling,  he  supposed,  was  a  visible 
mark  of  his  reprobation,  like  that  which  had  been  set 
on  Cain.  At  one  time,  indeed,  an  encouraging  voice 
seemed  to  rush  in  at  the  window,  like  the  noise  of  wind, 
but  very  pleasant,  and  commanded,  as  he  says,  a  great 
calm  in  his  soul.  At  another  time  a  word  of  comfort 
"was  spoke  loud  unto  him;  it  showed  a  great  word;  it 
seemed  to  be  writ  in  great  letters."  But  these  intervals 
of  ease  were  short.  His  state,  during  two  years  and  a 
half,  was  generally  the  most  horrible  that  the  human 
mind  can  imagine.  "I  walked,"  says  he,  with  his  own 
peculiar  eloquence,  "to  a  neighboring  town;  and  sat 
down  upon  a  settle  in  the  street,  and  fell  into  a  very  deep 
pause  about  the  most  fearful  state  my  sin  had  brought 
me  to;  and,  after  long  musing,  I  lifted  up  my  head;  but 
methought  I  saw  as  if  the  sun  that  shineth  in  the  heavens 
did  grudge  to  give  me  light;  and  as  if  the  very  stones  in 
the  street,  and  the  tiles  upon  the  houses,  did  band  them- 
selves against  me.  Methought  that  they  all  combined 
together  to  banish  me  out  of  the  world.  I  was  abhorred 
of  them,  and  unfit  to  dwell  among  them,  because  I  had 
sinned  against  the  Saviour.  Oh,  how  happy  now  was 
every  creature  over  I !  for  they  stood  fast,  and  kept  their 
station.  But  I  was  gone  and  lost."  Scarcely  any  mad- 
house could  produce  an  instance  of  delusion  so  strong,  or 
of  misery  so  acute. 

It  was  through  this  valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
overhung  by  darkness,  peopled  with  devils,  resounding 
with  blasphemy  and  lamentation,  and  passing  amidst 
quagmires,  snares,  and  pitfalls,  close  by  the  very  mouth 
of  hell,  that  Bunyan  journeyed  to  that  bright  and  fruit- 
ful land  of  Beulah,  in  which  he  sojourned  during  the 
latter  period  of  his  pilgrimage.  The  only  trace  which  his 
cruel  sufferings  and  temptations  seem  to  have  left  behind 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY  203 

them  was  an  affectionate  compassion  for  those  who  were 
still  in  the  state  in  which  he  had  once  been.  Religion 
has  scarcely  ever  worn  a  form  so  calm  and  soothing  as  in 
his  allegory.  The  feeling  which  predominates  through 
the  whole  book  is  a  feeling  of  tenderness  for  weak,  timid, 
and  harassed  minds.  The  character  of  Mr.  Fearing,  of 
Mr.  Feeblemind,  of  Mr.  Despondency  and  his  daughter 
Miss  Muchafraid,  the  account  of  poor  Littlefaith  who  was 
robbed  by  the  three  thieves  of  his  spending  money,  the 
description  of  Christian's  terror  in  the  dungeons  of  Giant 
Despair  and  in  his  passage  through  the  river,  all  clearly 
show  how  strong  a  sympathy  Bunyan  felt,  after  his  own 
mind  had  become  clear  and  cheerful,  for  persons  afflicted 
with  religious  melancholy. 

Mr.  Southey,  who  has  no  love  for  the  Calvinists,  ad- 
mits that,  if  Calvinism  had  never  worn  a  blacker  appear- 
ance than  in  Bunyan's  works,  it  would  never  have 
become  a  term  of  reproach.  In  fact,  those  works  of 
Bunyan  with  which  we  are  acquainted  are  by  no  means 
more  Calvinistic  than  the  articles  and  homilies  of  the 
Church  of  England.  The  moderation  of  his  opinions  on 
the  subject  of  predestination  gave  offense  to  some  zealous 
persons.  We  have  seen  an  absurd  allegory,  the  heroine 
of  which  is  named  Hephzibah,  written  by  some  raving 
supralapsarian*  preacher  who  was  dissatisfied  with  the 
mild  theology  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  In  this  foolish 
book,  if  we  recollect  rightly,  the  Interpreter  is  called  the 
Enlightener,  and  the  House  Beautiful  is  Castle  Strength. 
Mr.  Southey  tells  us  that  the  Catholics  had  also  their 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  without  a  Giant  Pope,  in  which  the 
Interpreter  is  the  Director,  and  the  House  Beautiful 
Grace's  Hall.  It  is  surely  a  remarkable  proof 

^ssszx 

to  be  saved  and  which  were  to  be  damned. 


204  THE   CRITICAL  ESSAY 

power  of  Bunyan's  genius,  that  two  religious  parties, 
both  of  which  regarded  his  opinions  as  heterodox,  should 
have  had  recourse  to  him  for  assistance. 

There  are,  we  think,  some  characters  and  scenes  in  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  which  can  be  fully  comprehended  and 
enjoyed  only  by  persons  familiar  with  the  history  of  the 
times  through  which  Bunyan  lived.  The  character  of 
Mr.  Greatheart,  the  guide,  is  an  example.  His  fighting 
is,  of  course,  allegorical;  but  the  allegory  is  not  strictly 
preserved.  He  delivers  a  sermon  on  imputed  righteous- 
ness to  his  companions;  and,  soon  after,  he  gives  battle 
to  Giant  Grim,  who  had  taken  upon  him  to  back  the  lions. 
He  expounds  the  fifty-third  chapter  of  Isaiah  to  the 
household  and  guests  of  Gaius;  and  then  he  sallies  out  to 
attack  Slaygood,  who  was  of  the  nature  of  flesh-eaters, 
in  his  den.  These  are  inconsistencies;  but  they  are  in- 
consistencies which  add,  we  think,  to  the  interest  of  the 
narrative.  We  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  Bunyan 
had  in  view  some  stout  old  Greatheart  of  Naseby  and 
Worcester,  who  prayed  with  his  men  before  he  drilled 
them,  who  knew  the  spiritual  state  of  every  dragoon  in 
his  troop,  and  who,  with  the  praises  of  God  in  his  mouth, 
and  a  two-edged  sword  in  his  hand,  had  turned  to  flight, 
on  many  fields  of  battle,  the  swearing,  drunken  bravoes 
of  Rupert  and  Lunsford. 

Every  age  produces  such  men  as  By-ends.  But  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  was  eminently  prolific 
of  such  men.  Mr.  Southey  thinks  that  the  satire  was 
aimed  at  some  particular  individual;  and  this  seems  by 
no  means  improbable.  At  all  events,  Bunyan  must  have 
known  many  of  those  hypocrites  who  followed  religion 
only  when  religion  walked  in  silver  slippers,  when  the 
sun  shone,  and  when  the  people  applauded.  Indeed,  he 
might  have  easily  found  all  the  kindred  of  By-ends  among 
the  public  men  of  his  time.  He  might  have  found  among 
the  peers  my  Lord  Turn-about,  my  Lord  Time-server, 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY  205 

and  my  Lord  Fair-speech;  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
Mr.  Smooth-man,  Mr.  Any-thing,  and  Mr,  Facing-both- 
ways;  nor  would  "the  parson  of  the  parish,  Mr.  Two- 
tongues,"  have  been  wanting.  The  town  of  Bedford 
probably  contained  more  than  one  politician  who,  after 
contriving  to  raise  an  estate  by  seeking  the  Lord  during 
the  reign  of  the  saints,  contrived  to  keep  what  he  had 
got  by  persecuting  the  saints  during  the  reign  of  the 
strumpets,  and  more  than  one  priest  who,  during  repeated 
changes  in  the  discipline  and  doctrines  of  the  church,  had 
remained  constant  to  nothing  but  his  benefice. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  passages  in  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress  is  that  in  which  the  proceedings  against  Faith- 
ful are  described.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  Bunyan 
intended  to  satirize  the  mode  in  which  state  trials  were 
conducted  under  Charles  the  Second.  The  license  given 
to  the  witnesses  for  the  prosecution,  the  shameless  par- 
tiality and  ferocious  insolence  of  the  judge,  the  precipi- 
tancy and  the  blind  rancor  of  the  jury,  remind  us  of  those 
odious  mummeries  which,  from  the  Restoration  to  the 
Revolution,  were  merely  forms  preliminary  to  hanging, 
drawing,  and  quartering.  Lord  Hategood  performs  the 
office  of  counsel  for  the  prisoners  as  well  as  Scroggs  him- 
self could  have  performed  it. 

"  JUDGE.  Thou  runagate,  heretic,  and  traitor,  hast 
thou  heard  what  these  honest  gentlemen  have  witnessed 
against  thee? 

"FAITHFUL.  May  I  speak  a  few  words  in  my  own 
defense  ? 

"JUDGE.  Sirrah,  sirrah!  thou  deservest  to  live  no 
longer,  but  to  be  slain  immediately  upon  the  place;  yet, 
that  all  men  may  see  our  gentleness  to  thee,  let  us  hear 
what  thou,  vile  runagate,  hast  to  say." 

No  person  who  knows  the  state  trials  can  be  at  a  loss 
for  parallel  cases.  Indeed,  write  what  Bunyan  would,  the 
baseness  and  cruelty  of  the  lawyers  of  those  times  "sinned 


206  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

up  to  it  still,"  and  even  went  beyond  it.  The  imaginary 
trial  of  Faithful,  before  a  jury  composed  of  personified 
vices,  was  just  and  merciful,  when  compared  with  the 
real  trial  of  Alice  Lisle  before  that  tribunal  where  all  the 
vices  sat  in  the  person  of  Jefferies. 

The  style  of  Bunyan  is  delightful  to  every  reader,  and 
invaluable  as  a  study  to  every  person  who  wishes  to  ob- 
tain a  wide  command  over  the  English  language.  The 
vocabulary  is  the  vocabulary  of  the  common  people. 
There  is  not  an  expression,  if  we  except  a  few  technical 
terms  of  theology,  which  would  puzzle  the  rudest  peasant. 
We  have  observed  several  pages  which  do  not  contain  a 
single  word  of  more  than  two  syllables.  Yet  no  writer 
has  said  more  exactly  what  he  meant  to  say.  For  mag- 
nificence, for  pathos,  for  vehement  exhortation,  for  subtle 
disquisition,  for  every  purpose  of  the  poet,  the  orator, 
and  the  divine,  this  homely  dialect,  the  dialect  of  plain 
working  men,  was  perfectly  sufficient.  There  is  no  book 
in  our  literature  on  which  we  would  so  readily  stake  the 
fame  of  the  old  unpolluted  English  language,  no  book 
which  shows  so  well  how  rich  that  language  is  in  its  own 
proper  wealth,  and  how  little  it  has  been  improved  by 
all  that  it  has  borrowed. 

Cowper  said,  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  that  he  dared  not 
name  John  Bunyan  in  his  verse,  for  fear  of  moving  a 
sneer.  To  our  refined  forefathers,  we  suppose,  Lord 
Roscommon's  Essay  on  Translated  Verse,  and  the  Duke 
of  Buckinghamshire's  Essay  on  Poetry,  appeared  to  be 
compositions  infinitely  superior  to  the  allegory  of  the 
preaching  tinker.  We  live  in  better  times;  and  we  are 
not  afraid  to  say,  that,  though  there  were  many  clever 
men  in  England  during  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  there  were  only  two  great  creative  minds.  One 
of  those  minds  produced  the  Paradise  Lost,  the  other  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress. 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO 

WELLS'S  "OUTLINE  OF  HISTORY"; 


J.  Salwyn  Schaplro  (1879 )  is  assistant  professor 

of  History  in  the  College  of  the  City  of  New  York.  He 
received  his  early  education  in  the  public  schools  of 
Hudson,  New  York;  and  his  collegiate  training  at  the 
College  of  the  City  of  New  York  and  at  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, receiving  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy 
from  Columbia  in  1909.  He  is  the  author  of  Social  Re- 
form and  the  Reformation  and  Modern  and  Contemporary 
European  History. 

The  review  here  given  appeared  originally  in  the  New 
York  Nation.  It  is  longer  than  most  reviews,  partly 
because  of  the  importance  of  the  book  to  be  discussed, 
partly  because  of  the  method  of  treatment  adopted  by 
the  reviewer.  The  article  has  three  main  divisions: 
(a)  a  general  discussion  of  the  subject  of  history,  with 
reference  to  Mr.  Wells;  (6)  a  summary  of  the  Outline  of 
History,  with  comment;  (c)  an  estimate  of  Mr.  Wells's 
whole  literary  product,  for  the  purpose  of  pointing  out 
features  which  are  common  to  all  his  writings. 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO 

H.   G.   WELLS'S  "OUTLINE  OF  HISTORY" 

(This  article  appeared  in  The  Nation  for  February  3,  1921.  It 
is  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  editor  of  The 
Nation.) 


In  The  Outline  of  History  Mr.  Wells  has  performed  at 
least  one  remarkable  feat:  he  has  interested  the  average 
intelligent  reader  in  history.  No  professional  historian 
now  living  has  ever  done  it  or  could  do  it.  The  average 
intelligent  person  will  read  fiction,  essays,  philosophy, 
science,  and  sometimes  even  poetry;  but  he  will  not  read 
history.  And  the  reason  for  this  is  obvious.  History 
has  recently  been  written  for  one  of  two  audiences.  One 
of  these  audiences  consists  of  students  in  school  and  col- 
lege to  whom  history  is  presented  as  an  endless  and  tire- 
some succession  of  dates,  battles,  political  parties,  the 
"heroic  dead,"  politicians,  kings,  and  generals.  Exami- 
nations once  over,  these  students  promptly  proceed  to 
forget  all  about  it.  But  the  memory  of  horrors  associated 
with  studying  history  lingers,  and  in  after-life  nothing 
will  induce  them  to  open  a  book  on  this  subject.  Or 
history  has  been  written  by  the  Ph.  Deified  for  the  Ph. 
Deified,  generally  in  a  language  unknown  to  living  men. 
When  an  ordinary  person  happens  across  a  volume  of 
this  type  and  begins  reading  it,  he  is  at  first  mystified, 
then  dismayed,  and  ends  by  giving  the  book  as  a  gift  to 
a  deserving  nephew.  Now  and  then  a  Macaulay,  a 
Green,  a  Michelet,  a  Treitschke,  a  Mommsen,  a  Ban- 
croft comes  along  and  writes  a  history  so  vivid,  so  full 

209 


210  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

of  the  life  and  color  that  characterize  man  even  at  his 
lowest  and  stupidest  that  the  reader  overcomes  his 
antipathy  for  the  subject  and  pursues  it  with  avidity. 

Mr.  Wells,  by  profession  a  novelist  and  by  tempera- 
ment a  reformer,  has  now  essayed  the  task.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  he  is  not  a  member  of  the  guild  of  historians 
and  has  therefore  received  no  training  in  what  is  termed 
scientific  history,  he  is  nevertheless  in  many  ways  re- 
markably well  qualified  for  it.  In  the  first  place,  he  has 
a  strong,  subtle,  and  profound  sense  of  human  relation- 
ships. Few  men  of  our  day  have  so  keen  a  realization 
of  the  forces  in  life  that  make  or  mar  individuals  and  so- 
cieties. In  the  second  place,  Mr.  Wells  possesses  un- 
usual powers  of  imagination,  an  essential  gift  in  one  who 
essays  to  write  history,  for  it  takes  imagination  to  see 
reality.  The  unimaginative  see  only  forms,  appearances, 
and  semblances,  never  reality.  Finally,  Mr.  Wells  can 
write  superlatively  well.  A  reader  can  rest  assured  as 
he  takes  up  these  two  rather  large  volumes  that  they  will 
hold  his  attention  throughout. 

To  Mr.  Wells,  as  to  many  other  thoughtful  men,  the 
World  War  and  the  class  wars  that  followed  in  its  wake 
revealed  a  civilization  sick  unto  death.  A  true  lover  of 
mankind,  he  was  moved  to  inquire  into  the  origin  of  the 
dreadful  disease  that  brought  about  the  world  tragedy. 
He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  trouble  lay  primarily 
in  the  fact  that  history  has  been  the  handmaid  of  narrow 
nationalisms,  religious  bigotry,  stupid  racialism,  and  cul- 
tural arrogance  that  fostered  suspicions  and  bred  hatreds; 
and  that  "there  can  be  no  common  peace  and  prosperity 
without  common  historical  ideas."  Thereupon  Mr. 
Wells  determined  to  become  the  propagandist  for  man- 
kind by  writing  a  universal  history  from  the  time,  about 
half  a  million  years  ago,  when  the  earth  was  a  flaring 
mass  of  matter  without  life,  to  the  present  day. 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  211 

The  Outline  is  a  history  with  a  new  point  of  view,  Mr. 
Wells 's  own.  Briefly,  it  is  this:  All  mankind  has  a  com- 
mon origin  and  heritage,  has  travelled  along  a  common 
path,  and  is  nearing  a  common  goal.  Being  conscious 
of  this,  it  has  tried  "to  create  and  develop  a  common 
consciousness  and  a  common  stock  of  knowledge  which 
may  serve  and  illuminate  that  purpose."  History  in  this 
sense  becomes  "the  common  adventure  of  all  mankind" 
in  search  of  social  and  international  peace  through  a 
mitigation  of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  nations  and  of 
property.  Mr.  Wells's  history  "deals  with  ages,  and 
races,  and  nations  where  the  ordinary  history  deals  with 
reigns  and  pedigrees  and  campaigns."  No  people,  no 
religion,  no  country,  no  period,  is  overlooked.  The  Old- 
line  is  in  spirit  and  in  fact  a  universal  history.  It  con- 
cerns itself  with  Asia  and  Africa  no  less  than  with  Europe 
and  America;  with  Buddhism  and  Mohammedanism  no 
less  than  with  Judaism  and  Christianity;  with  primitive 
life  no  less  than  with  modern;  with  Hindus,  Chinese, 
Persians,  and  Egyptians  no  less  than  with  Englishmen, 
Frenchmen,  and  Germans. 

According  to  Mr.  Wells  there  have  been  three  struc- 
tural ideas  in  the  life  of  mankind  on  which  the  great 
society  of  the  future  will  be  built:  (1)  science,  first  identi- 
fied with  Herodotus  and  Aristotle;  (2)  a  universal  God  of 
righteousness,  the  contribution  of  the  Semites;  and  (3) 
a  system  of  world  polity,  first  suggested  by  the  empire  of 
Alexander  the  Great.  Mr.  Wells  has  envisaged  the  path 
of  civilization.  Civilization  arose  as  a  "community  of 
obedience,"  subject  to  priests,  lords,  and  kings,  and  has 
progressed  toward  a  "community  of  will,"  self-determin- 
ing, democratic,  free.  The  American  Revolution,  he  de- 
clares, was  the  first  great  positive  and  successful  tep 
toward  the  foundation  of  a  "community  01  will, 
repudiated  the  ancient  forms  of  authority,  king,  priest, 


212  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

and  lord.  The  great  repudiation  was  of  course  the 
French  Revolution. 

So  gigantic  a  task  as  Mr.  Wells  set  before  himself  would 
require  the  industry  of  a  Ranke,  the  versatility  of  a 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  learning  of  a  Mommsen,  and  the 
style  of  a  Macaulay;  in  short,  universal  genius  of  the 
highest  order.  Mr.  Wells,  having  a  sense  of  humor, 
knows  his  limitations.  He  has  modestly  avowed  them 
and  has  sought  advice  and  assistance  from  many  experts 
in  various  fields,  the  chief  being  Mr.  Ernest  Barker,  Sir 
E.  Ray  Lankester,  and  Professor  Gilbert  Murray.  The 
Outline  is  profusely  illustrated  with  interesting  and  orig- 
inal maps,  diagrams,  and  drawings  by  Mr.  J.  F.  Horra- 
bin.  One  of  the  unusual  features  of  the  book  is  the 
heckling,  in  true  English  fashion,  of  the  text  by  the 
foot-notes.  It  is  the  tradition  for  foot-notes  to  murmur 
approval  to  whatever  the  text  is  pleased  to  say;  in  this 
history  they  shout  defiance  at  the  text.  Mr.  Wells's 
advisers,  who  wrote  and  signed  most  of  the  foot-notes, 
use  this  method  of  disagreeing  with  him.  Sometimes  he 
descends  to  the  foot-notes  to  engage  in  a  bout  with  his 
critics.  All  this  is  quite  diverting  and  gay,  and  for  once 
the  reader  will  enjoy  reading  foot-notes. 

The  Outline  contains  nothing  original  except  the  point 
of  view  and  method  of  treatment.  Mr.  Wells  does  not 
claim  to  have  discovered  new  material  or  to  have  dis- 
credited old  material.  Everything  in  his  book  is  acces- 
sible elsewhere.  Universal  histories,  too,  are  not  new; 
they  were  the  fashion  in  the  eighteenth  century  and  even 
earlier.  But  his  is  the  first  book,  and,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  only  one,  that  is  a  universal  history  with  a  distinctly 
modern  point  of  view  and  that  has  utilized  and  has  brought 
to  bear  upon  its  thesis  the  accumulated  riches  of  modern 
scholarship  in  the  related  sciences  of  geology,  biology, 
archaeology,  ethnology,  sociology,  comparative  religions, 
economics,  and  political  science. 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  213 

At  this  point  it  is  important  to  inquire  on  what  basis 
Mr.  Wells  solved  the  problem  of  selection.  Every  writer 
of  history  is  confronted  with  this  vexing  problem.  What 
shall  he  select  from  the  enormous  mass  of  material  that 
constitutes  human  history?  What  shall  be  excluded? 
What  shall  be  emphasized?  What  shall  be  minimized? 
The  manner  in  which  historians  react  to  these  problems 
varies  with  their  point  of  view,  their  traditions,  their 
education,  their  milieu*  their  temperament,  and  espe- 
cially with  the  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  they  live.  Every 
age  rewrites  history  to  suit  itself,  because  interpretation 
of  history  changes  with  increase  of  knowledge  and  with  a 
better  understanding  of  that  curious  being  called  Man. 
We  of  to-day  understand  the  ancient  Greeks  far  better 
than  did  Pericles  because  we  know  more  of  human  psy- 
chology than  he  did.  In  a  sense  the  historian  may  be 
considered  a  social  psychoanalyst,  for  he  brings  to  the 
surface  the  unconscious  motives  and  forces  that  have 
caused  profound  changes  in  human  affairs.  Those  who 
write  history  with  the  view  to  merely  explaining  the  past 
are  not  historians  but  antiquarians.  A  true  historian 
studies  the  past  with  a  view  primarily  to  explaining  the 
present,  and  not  infrequently  does  he  use  the  present  to 
throw  light  on  the  past.  Now,  what  was  Mr.  Wells's 
basis  of  selection?  In  his  case  the  question  is  all  the 
more  important  because  he  had  to  encompass  half  a  mil- 
lion years  of  world  history  in  two  volumes.  His  answer 
is  in  itself  no  small  contribution.  His  purpose  is  to  in- 
clude and  to  emphasize  only  those  events  in  the  past 
that  have  a  bearing  on  the  future.  Readers  of  Mr. 
Wells's  books  know  that,  in  his  great  quest  to  fathom  the 
mystery  of  life,  his  eyes  have  always  been  turned  toward 
the  future.  He  never  tires  of  reiterating  the  sentiment 
that  the  chief  business  of  mankind  ought  to  be  to  prepare 
*  Milieu,  environment,  the  conditions  which  surround  one. 


214  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

itself,  its  ideals,  and  its  institutions  for  the  great  future 
that  is  approaching.  This  point  of  view  animates  and 
distinguishes  the  Outline. 

The  book  possesses  another  unique  quality,  its  inti- 
macy. Mr.  Wells  is  the  one  writer  of  history  who  takes 
the  reader  into  his  confidence  and  discusses  with  him 
frankly  the  significance  of  the  great  events  of  the  past. 
History  as  seen  through  the  temperament  of  Mr.  Wells 
is  novel,  piquant,  and  entertaining.  In  reading  the  Old- 
line  one  seldom  gets  the  idea  that  what  is  narrated  oc- 
curred far  away  and  long  ago.  Mr.  Wells  has  no  sense 
of  time,  for  he  discusses  events  in  the  remote  past  as  if 
they  were  still  happening.  All  ages  are  contemporary 
with  Mr.  Wells.  This  gives  vividness  to  his  story  and 
truthfulness,  too;  for  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  the  dead 
we  have  always  with  us. 


II 

Book  I  tells  the  story  of  the  origin  of  the  world.  In  a 
style  so  simple  and  lucid  that  a  child  can  understand  it, 
he  describes  the  Record  of  the  Rocks,  the  changes  of 
climate,  the  formation  of  the  earth's  surface,  the  first 
appearance  of  life,  the  origin  of  species,  and  finally  the 
Age  of  Mammals.  Mr.  Wells's  early  scientific  training 
has  stood  him  in  good  stead.  He  has  evidently  read 
widely  and  deeply  in  this  field,  for  he  moves  easily  among 
his  materials.  The  reader  is  held  in  breathless  suspense 
as  the  thrilling  tale  is  told  of  thousands  of  years  of  which 
the  record,  though  so  slight,  is  yet  so  significant. 

Book  II  is,  if  anything,  still  more  fascinating.  It 
alone  is  worth  the  price  of  the  two  volumes.  It  tells  the 
story  of  the  origin  and  development  of  the  human  race, 
from  our  ape-like  ancestor  through  the  Heidelberg,  Pilt- 
down,  Neanderthal,  and  Cro-Magnon  types  to  present 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  215 

man.  Mr.  Wells  possesses  a  scientific  imagination  of  a 
high  order.  He  reconstructs  in  a  marvellous  way  the 
Paleolithic  and  Neolithic  Ages  with  their  inhabitants, 
tools,  architecture,  and  art.  He  then  tells  of  the  origin 
of  races,  of  agriculture,  of  herding,  and  of  trade.  Finally 
he  reconstructs  the  mind  of  primitive  man,  and  describes 
the  origin  of  thought,  of  symbols,  of  legends,  of  religion, 
and  of  the  various  languages. 

Book  III,  on  the  Dawn  of  History,  keeps  up  the  pace. 
It  deals  with  the  first  civilizations,  Sumerian,  Assyrian, 
Chaldean,  Egyptian,  Hindu,  and  Chinese;  with  the  mari- 
time and  trading  people  of  the  ^Egean,  the  Cretans,  Tro- 
jans, Phoenicians,  and  Homeric  Greeks.  There  is  a 
short  but  remarkably  clear  chapter  on  the  origin  and 
importance  of  writing.  Mr.  Wells  traces  writing  through 
the  picture,  the  syllable,  and  finally  to  the  alphabet  stage. 
With  the  coming  of  the  written  word,  "verbal  tradition 
which  had  hitherto  changed  from  age  to  age,  began  to  be 
fixed.  Men  separated  by  hundreds  of  miles  could  now 
communicate  their  thoughts.  An  increasing  number  of 
human  beings  began  to  share  a  common  written  knowl- 
edge and  a  common  sense  of  a  past  and  a  future.  Human 
thinking  became  a  larger  operation  in  which  hundreds 
of  minds  in  different  places  and  different  ages  oould  react 
upon  each  other." 

How  the  priest  and  king  came  into  history  is  the  next 
theme.  There  is  a  bare  suggestion  that  the  forerunner 
of  both  was  the  Paleolithic  Old  Man  of  the  Tribe,  dreaded 
not  only  in  life  as  the  master  but  dreaded  as  well  after 
death,  so  that  his  spirit  had  to  be  propitiated.  He  had 
cared  for  the  tribe  when  alive;  he  no  doubt  would  care 
for  it  when  dead  !  He  was  the  spirit  of  authority.  Per- 
haps a  god  !  Ideas  that  once  have  lived  never  really  die. 
They  live  on  as  taboos,  conventions,  traditions,  rever- 
ences, and  "sweet  remembrances."  Book  III  ends  with 


216  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

the  story  of  the  common  man.  It  tells  the  origin  of  castes, 
trades,  professions,  guilds,  slavery,  and  free  labor. 

With  Book  IV,  on  Judea,  Greece,  and  India,  the  Out- 
line enters  the  field  of  history  proper.  Here  Mr.  Wells 
treats  of  familiar  things  in  a  quite  unfamiliar  manner. 
He  has  no  great  admiration  for  David  and  Solomon,  both 
of  whom  are  pictured  as  cruel,  treacherous,  and  bloody 
Eastern  monarchs. 

Four  chapters  are  devoted  to  the  Greeks,  whom  Mr. 
Wells  greatly  admires  as  the  first  truly  modern  men  be- 
cause they  were  scientific  and  sceptical.  Much  valuable 
space  is  given  to  the  struggles  between  the  Greeks  and 
Persians.  Many  trivial  incidents  and  personalities  are 
dwelt  upon  because  of  their  picturesqueness.  Croesus 
gets  fully  six  pages  and  Socrates  only  two.  On  the  whole 
the  chapter  on  Greek  thought  is  not  up  to  the  mark.  Of 
Alexander  the  Great  Mr.  Wells  has  a  low  opinion.  De- 
moralized as  a  child  by  his  mother,  Alexander  grew  up 
to  be  insanely  egotistical.  He  did  nothing  directly  of 
any  permanent  value.  As  for  Hellenizing  the  East,  all 
he  did  was  to  wander  aimlessly  through  the  region,  fight- 
ing any  one  who  came  his  way  and  for  no  particular  reason. 
Both  as  statesman  and  soldier,  Alexander's  father,  Philip, 
was  much  his  superior.  Alexander  is  "nothing  but  a 
personal  legend,"  his  greatness  an  invention  of  historians. 
About  the  only  thing  that  he  did  bequeath  to  posterity 
is  the  custom  of  shaving  one's  face,  which  he  initiated 
because  he  was  enamored  of  his  own  youthful  loveliness. 
Mr.  Wells  has  small  respect  for  "Heroes  of  History/' 
especially  if  they  happen  to  be  conquerors,  and  his  opin- 
ion of  Alexander,  just  stated,  is  certainly  entertaining 
and  perhaps  correct. 

One  of  the  best  chapters,  if  not  the  best,  in  the  Out- 
line is  that  on  Buddhism.  Strangely  enough,  Mr.  Wells 
is  at  his  best  when  dealing  with  science  and  religion. 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  217 

The  story  of  the  life  of  Gautama  is  told  with  thrilling 
eloquence  and  fine  appreciation.  Gautama's  teachings, 
Mr.  Wells  declares,  are  in  "closest  harmony  with  modern 
ideas"  and  are  indisputably  "the  achievement  of  one  of 
the  most  penetrating  intelligences  the  world  has  ever 
known."  He  corrects  the  common  misconception  that 
Nirvana  is  a  state  of  complete  annihilation  by  explaining 
that  it  is  a  state  of  serenity  of  soul  which  comes  to  one 
who  is  absorbed  in  something  greater  than  himself.  Mr. 
Wells  is  lost  in  admiration  for  Gautama's  doctrine,  which 
he  identifies  with  the  teaching  of  history  as  presented  by 
the  Outline.  However,  Buddhism  gathered  corruption  as 
it  spread,  so  that  to-day  the  ideals  of  Gautama  are  fairly 
smothered  in  a  hideous  mass  of  idolatry,  superstition,  and 
sacerdotalism.  The  teachings  of  a  master  are  generally 
corrupted  by  his  disciples,  who  are  apt  to  be  enthusiastic 
and  undiscriminating  propagandists,  eager  to  spread  the 
faith  at  all  costs.  "Men  who  would  scorn  to  tell  a  lie 
in  every-day  life,"  writes  Mr.  Wells,  "will  become  un- 
scrupulous cheats  and  liars  when  they  have  given  them- 
selves up  to  propagandist  work."  Who  has  not  met 
them  these  last  years ! 


Ill 

With  the  chapter  on  Buddhism  the  Outline  reaches  its 
high-water  mark.  From  thence  on,  a  startling  change  is 
noticeable.  And  the  change  is  for  the  worse.  There  is 
no  longer,  as  in  the  first  volume,  the  sure  touch  and  firm 
grasp  that  comes  from  knowledge  accumulated  and  di- 
gested. Mr.  Wells  now  moves  uneasily  among  his  ma- 
terials, which  he  has  annexed  from  encyclopaedia  articles 
and  a  few  simple  manuals.  Although  he  makes  compara- 
tively few  downright  errors,  his  story  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire, the  Middle  Ages,  and  Modern  Times  is  tragically 


218  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

disappointing  in  view  of  the  hopes  he  has  raised  in  the 
earlier  sections.  The  second  volume  is  disfigured  by  in- 
sufficient knowledge  and  bad  judgment,  gaucheries,*  prej- 
udice, and  even  pettiness,  sometimes  to  a  degree  that  is 
positively  shocking.  There  seems  to  be  no  rhyme  or 
reason  for  the  inclusion  of  some  things  and  the  exclusion 
ef  others  except  the  author's  whims.  In  short,  there  is 
no  basis  of  selection  of  any  kind  that  I  can  see.  The 
various  periods  and  countries  are  badly  integrated,  and 
the  reader  loses  sight  completely  of  the  great  path  that 
humanity  has  travelled  since  its  appearance  on  the  earth. 

Book  V  is  the  history  of  the  Roman  Empire.  As  may 
be  expected,  the  children  of  Mars  fare  badly  at  the  hands 
of  the  anti-militarist  Mr.  Wells.  The  Romans  were 
brutal  "Neanderthal  men,"  incurious,  unimaginative,  and 
intellectually  far  inferior  to  the  Greeks.  The  Roman  Em- 
pire was  "a  colossally  ignorant  and  unimaginative  em- 
pire." It  foresaw  nothing.  It  had  no  conception  of 
statecraft.  It  was  a  gigantic  bureaucracy  only,  that 
taxed  and  kept  the  peace.  Its  inhabitants,  both  rich  and 
poor,  led  dreary  lives,  which  explains  their  delight  in  the 
savage  conflicts  of  the  arena.  Even  though  one  may  dis- 
like the  Romans,  the  fact  nevertheless  remains  that, 
during  a  period  of  six  centuries,  they  did  unify  the  West- 
ern world  and  did  create  a  world  polity — that  thing  so 
much  desired  by  Mr.  Wells;  they  did  create  the  system  of 
private  law  upon  which  modern  jurisprudence  is  largely 
based;  they  did  create  an  administrative  system  which 
functions  to  this  day  in  Latin  Europe. 

According  to  Mr.  Wells,  the  most  significant  fact  in 
Roman  history  is  the  increasing  use  of  money,  making 
capital  fluid  and  free.  This  led  to  speculation  and  the 
rise  of  a  money  power,  which  became  the  efficient  help- 
meet of  the  military.  Mr.  Wells  thinks  the  Roman 
*  Gaucheries,  awkward  expressions. 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  219 

system  was  "a  crude  anticipation  of  our  own,"  with  its 
machine  politics  and  professional  politicians,  class  con- 
flicts, mobs,  wire-pullers,  "common  people,"  reformers, 
political  corruption,  capitalism,  and  the  "science  of 
thwarting  the  common  man."  He  tells  the  story  of  the 
Gracchi,  and  of  how  they  were  energetically  massacred 
by  the  "champions  of  law  and  order."  All  this  is  highly 
suggestive. 

Mr.  Wells's  judgment  of  famous  Romans  is  amusing,  to 
say  the  least.  The  picture  that  he  draws  of  Cato  the 
Censor  would  lead  one  to  believe  that  that  austere  worthy 
fairly  reeked  with  morals  and  was  therefore  full  of  hatred 
and  all  uncharitableness  for  the  gentle  and  joyous  things 
of  life.  Julius  Caesar's  greatness,  Mr.  Wells  firmly  be- 
lieves, is  purely  the  invention  of  historians,  who  magnify 
and  dress  him  up  "for  the  admiration  of  careless  and  un- 
critical readers."  According  to  our  author,  Csesar  was 
a  Roman  politician,  rich,  corrupt,  and  dissolute.  Like 
Clodius  and  Catiline  he  was  a  vulgar  schemer  and  con- 
spirator, only  shrewder  and  more  crafty  than  they.  At 
no  time  did  he  show  any  symptoms  of  greatness  either  of 
mind  or  character.  At  the  very  zenith  of  his  power, 
Caesar  was  much  more  interested  in  Cleopatra  than  in 
Romanizing  the  world.  This  belittling  of  Csesar,  as  of 
Alexander,  is  due  to  Mr.  Wells's  intense  dislike  of  con- 
querors and  the  homage  that  is  paid  them. 

I  was  astounded  to  find  that  Mr.  Wells  has  swallowed 
—hook,  worm,  and  sinker — the  legend  of  the  "Fall"  of 
Rome,  now  long  exploded.  He  characterizes  the  inva- 
sion of  the  German  barbarians  as  a  "conquest  of  the 
Empire"  which  "crumpled  up."  He  does  not  seem  to 
understand  that  what  he  calls  the  "Fall"  was  a  long 
process  of  decay  and  absorption.  The  cause  of  the 
"Fall,"  he  writes,  was  the  stupidity  and  "incuriousness" 
of  the  Romans.  He  gives  us  no  evidence  of  being  aware 


220  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

of  the  rast  social  changes  that  were  taking  place  during 
the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries,  the  silent  economic  mas- 
sacre of  the  lower  middle  classes,  the  sinking  of  the  free 
laborers  to  a  condition  of  serfdom,  the  race  suicide — 
phenomena  that  surely  offer  some  explanation  for  the 
decay  of  the  Roman  world. 

Book  VI  deals  with  Christianity,  Islam,  and  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  Naturally  one  is  interested  in  what  the  author 
of  First  and  Last  Things  has  to  say  on  the  religion  of  his 
fathers  and  of  his  contemporaries.  The  Outline  nar- 
rates the  life  of  Christ  in  a  tone  that  is  reverent  and 
"correct."  There  is  no  such  thrilling  eloquence,  however, 
as  there  is  in  the  description  of  Gautama. 

Christianity,  says  Mr.  Wells,  diverged  from  the  pure 
Gospel  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  almost  from  the  beginning. 
He  has  severe  things  to  say  of  St.  Paul  as  a  preacher  "of 
the  ancient  religion  of  priest  and  altar  and  propitiatory 
bloodshed."  Soon  there  came  accretions  from  Mith- 
raism  and  from  the  Isis  cult  of  Egypt.  Finally  there  came 
the  dogma  of  the  Trinity  which  to  Mr.  Wells  was  "a  dis- 
astrous ebullition  of  the  human  mind"  leading  to  bitter 
schisms  that  rent  the  Church.  "  Men  who  quarrelled  over 
business  affairs,"  he  writes,  "wives  who  wished  to  annoy 
their  husbands,  developed  antagonistic  views  on  this 
exalted  theme."  Further  on  in  the  book  he  goes  on  to 
say  that  in  time  "the  gory  forefinger  of  the  Etruscan 
pontifex  maximus  emphasized  the  teachings  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth;  the  mental  complexity  of  the  Alexandrian 
Greek  entangled  them."  So  deeply  hostile  is  Mr.  Wells 
to  Christianity  that  when  he  does  say  something  nice 
about  it  he  says  something  which  is  erroneous.  He  re- 
peats the  common  fallacy  that  Christianity  was  opposed 
to  slavery  and  brought  about  its  abolition. 

The  story  of  Christianity's  rival  as  a  world  religion, 
Mohammedanism,  is  told  next.  Mr.  Wells's  opinion  of 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  221 

Mohammed  is  that  he  was  "vain,  egotistical,  tyrannous, 
and  a  self -deceiver."  Although  not  an  impostor,  he  was 
"diplomatic,  treacherous,  ruthless,  or  compromising  as 
the  occasion  required."  But  though  its  founder  was  at 
once  a  knave  and  a  fool,  Mr.  Wells  assures  us  that  Islam 
was  superior  to  both  Judaism  and  Christianity.  Mr. 
Wells's  ideas  of  Mohammedanism  are  what  Alice  in 
Wonderland  would  call  "imaginotions."  His  enthu- 
siasm for  Islam  is  understandable,  however,  for  its  vast 
embrace  of  millions  of  all  sorts  of  races  and  tribes  marks 
a  great  step  in  the  advance  of  the  unity  of  mankind,  the 
goal  of  all  human  history. 

Mr.  Wells  then  betakes  himself  to  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  greatness  of  the  hero  of  the  period,  Charlemagne, 
another  warrior-statesman,  posterity  has  greatly  exag- 
gerated, Mr.  Wells  assures  us.  Charlemagne  was  the  first 
of  the  imitation  Caesars  of  which  William  II  was  the  last. 
Nowhere  in  this  chapter,  or  in  any  other,  is  there  an  ade- 
quate description  of  feudal  society;  there  are  a  few  loose 
paragraphs  about  it.  The  Crusades,  on  the  other  hand, 
receive  adequate  treatment.  Mr.  Wells  has  a  sense  for 
movements,  and  he  describes  these  romantic  popular 
outpourings  with  spirit  and  insight. 

Book  VII  contains  two  surprising  chapters.  The  one 
on  the  Mongols  is  surprising  because  it  is  dull.  It  is  the 
only  dull  chapter  in  the  two  volumes.  It  is  a  tedious  re- 
cital of  Tartar  raids  and  Tartar  dynasties.  The  other 
chapter  deals  with  the  Renaissance  and  the  Protestant 
Revolution.  It  is  surprising  because  there  is  so  little  of 
the  Renaissance  and  of  Protestantism  in  it.  Petrarch, 
Erasmus,  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  the  great  artists  remain 
unhonored  and  unsung:  for  they  are  barely  mentioned. 
There  is  a  poor  description  of  mediaeval  scholasticism, 
little  or  nothing  of  humanism,  and  a  fairly  good  account 
of  the  scientific  aspect  of  the  Renaissance.  I  searched 


222  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

for  the  origins  of  Protestantism,  and  after  a  great  effort 
I  found  a  few  lines  about  Martin  Luther  tucked  away  in 
the  corner  of  a  long  dissertation  on  Charles  V,  a  mon- 
arch whom  Mr.  Wells  considers  commonplace,  with  a 
"  thick  upper  lip  and  long  clumsy  chin/'  Scarcely  a 
word  is  to  be  found  about  Calvin,  Knox,  Zwingli,  and 
Cranmer.  All  the  space  that  poor  Queen  Elizabeth  gets 
is  that  she  is  "among  those  present"  in  a  list  of  Tudor 
monarchs.  But  let  that  good  lady  not  worry.  Shake- 
speare has  escaped  Mr.  Wells's  notice  altogether.  Much 
space  is  devoted  to  Machiavelli,  Charles  V,  Francis  I, 
and  Loyola. 

The  reader  now  encounters  long  digressions  that  point 
in  every  direction.  One  of  these  is  interesting  and  im- 
portant. It  is  on  education.  Because  the  Roman  Em- 
pire failed  to  establish  a  system  of  popular  education,  it 
did  not  develop  what  Mr.  Wells  suggestively  calls  "edu- 
cational government";  and  therefore  it  had  to  rely  upon 
political  and  military  government.  The  written  word 
meant  nothing  to  the  average  man  of  ancient  times. 
Owing  to  this  lack  of  popular  education,  ancient  civiliza- 
tion was  "a  light  in  a  dark  lantern."  It  was  Christi- 
anity that  first  relied  successfully  upon  the  power  of  the 
written  word  "to  link  great  multitudes  of  diverse  men 
together  in  common  enterprises."  Islam  later  imitated 
Christianity.  By  establishing  schools  for  popular  teach- 
ing the  Catholic  Church  grasped  the  idea  of  educational 
government,  the  ideal  of  the  future.  What  was  lacking 
was  the  means  to  get  knowledge  and  information  so  that 
this  new  type  of  government  could  function.  That  came 
with  printing.  Mr.  Wells  cannot  overemphasize  the  im- 
portance of  printing.  In  a  highly  interesting  and  in- 
structive manner  he  explains  how  "paper  liberated  the 
human  mind,"  causing  the  spread  of  knowledge  so  that 
"it  ceased  to  be  the  privilege  of  a  favored  minority."  All 


J.   SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  223 

modern  progress  and  all  hope  for  the  future  are  inevitably 
bound  up  with  the  printed  page. 


IV 

Book  VIII  concerns  itself  with  the  period  from  the 
seventeenth  century  to  the  year  1920.  The  leading 
theme  is  the  development  of  the  "Great  Power"  idea 
and  its  evil  influence  upon  humanity.  It  was,  Mr.  Wells 
believes,  responsible  for  the  dynastic  wars  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries,  the  English,  American, 
and  French  Revolutions,  the  nationalistic  wars  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  the  World  War  of  1914.  Ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Wells  the  modern  state  was  a  disastrous 
humbug  that  ousted  Christianity  as  the  chief  religion  in 
the  Western  World.  At  every  opportunity  he  fires  vol- 
leys of  destructive  criticism  and  withering  sarcasm  at  the 
cult  of  nationalism,  man's  real,  living  god.  A  nation  he 
defines  as  "in  effect  any  assembly,  mixture,  or  confusion 
of  people  which  is  either  afflicted  by  or  wishes  to  be 
afflicted  by  a  foreign  office  of  its  own  in  order  that  it 
should  behave  collectively  as  if  it  alone  constituted  hu- 
manity." He  denounces  this  "megalomaniac  national- 
ism," and  pleads  for  a  "natural  political  map  of  the 
world."  This  should  be  drawn  by  a  commission  of  eth- 
nologists, geographers,  and  sociologists  instead  of  by 
scheming  and  intriguing  diplomats,  who  settle  little  and 
unsettle  much.  To  Mr.  Wells  nationalism  is  reactionary 
because  the  idea  of  a  world  state  "was  already  in  the 
world  two  thousand  years  ago,  never  more  to  leave  it." 
Mr.  Wells  utterly  fails  to  see  that  nationalism  is  not  an 
idea  that  one  can  eliminate  by  merely  taking  thought. 
It  is  a  sentiment  that  expresses  the  desire  of  a  community 
to  live  its  own  life  in  its  own  way,  unhampered  by  re- 
strictions imposed  by  autocrats  or  by  outsiders.  (By 


224  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

the  way,  was  not  Mr.  Wells  himself  a  hundred  per  cent 
Britisher  during  the  War?)  Nationalism  and  democracy 
are  one  and  inseparable.  Had  there  been  no  subject 
nations  there  would  have  been  no  nationalism.  Instead 
of  being  reactionary,  it  was  the  revolutionary  force  of  the 
nineteenth  century;  and  it  is  one  of  the  great  progressive 
forces  of  our  day.  Consider  India,  China,  Ireland,  Egypt, 
Imperialism,  the  very  antithesis  of  nationalism,  is  what 
has  brought  so  much  woe  to  the  world. 

Incomparably  the  worst  part  of  the  Outline  is  that 
which  deals  with  the  French  Revolution.  Being  totally 
devoid  of  any  knowledge  or  understanding  of  this  great 
movement,  Mr.  Wells  naturally  turns  for  support  to 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution.  Six  precious  pages  are  given 
to  Carlylian  gabble  about  marching  women,  Marat-in-the- 
bathtub,  and  similar  sensational  episodes;  and  only  a 
few  paragraphs  to  the  tremendous  work  of  the  National 
Assembly  that  completely  transformed  France  from  a 
feudal  to  a  modern  state.  Why  is  Carlyle's  French  Revo- 
lution  considered  a  great  work  of  "literature"?  I  am 
sure  that  I  do  not  know.  I  have  tried  several  times  to 
read  it,  but  I  have  never  got  very  far.  This  famous  book 
is  hardly  more  than  an  endless  series  of  disconnected 
ejaculations,  emitted  by  the  dyspeptic  philosopher  who 
was  the  greatest  bore  in  all  Christendom.  Mr.  Wells 
actually  says  that  England  was  a  "prospective  ally"  of 
the  French  Revolution  because  of  the  sympathies  of  the 
English  liberals  with  the  movement,  but  the  French  lost 
this  "prospective  ally"  by  foolishly  declaring  war  upon 
England.  Could  there  be  any  poorer  judgment?  Of 
course  the  true  cause  of  the  French  Revolution  was  the 
"Great  Power"  game.  It  would  take  real  ability  to 
write  a  chapter  on  the  French  Revolution  worse  than  this. 

Mr.  Wells's  description  of  Napoleon  is  the  most  enter- 
taining part  of  the  Outline.  There  is  a  laugh  in  every 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  225 

line.  The  reader  must  not  expect  a  study  of  the  Na- 
poleonic period,  military,  political,  or  social.  There  is 
nothing  there  worthy  of  serious  notice.  The  interest  in 
the  chapter  lies  entirely  in  Mr.  Wells's  view  of  Napoleon 
himself.  He  is  "  down  on  "  the  Man  of  Destiny,  obviously 
for  the  same  reason  that  he  is  "down  on"  Alexander, 
Caesar,  and  Charlemagne.  Napoleon  was  a  soldier  and 
no  soldier  could  possibly  have  been  a  truly  great  man. 
Mr.  Wells  considers  Talleyrand  an  abler  statesman  than 
Napoleon;  Moreau  and  Hoche,  abler  generals;  Czar 
Alexander  I  had  finer  imagination.  Mr.  Wells  also  opines 
that  Napoleon  III  was  "a  much  more  supple  and  intelli- 
gent man"  than  his  uncle.  This  is  too  much  for  Ernest 
Barker,  who  shouts  from  the  foot-notes  that  "this  is  a 
paradox  to  which  I  cannot  subscribe.  Please  put  me 
down  as  convinced  of  the  opposite."  "Even  regarded  as 
a  pest,"  pursues  the  imperturbable  Mr.  Wells,  "Napoleon 
was  not  of  supreme  rank;  he  killed  far  fewer  people  than 
the  influenza  epidemic  of  1918."  His  victories  were  due 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  "marvellously  lucky"  in  his 
"flounderings";  his  diplomatic  triumphs  were  due  to 
"good  fortune."  Napoleon's  career  was  the  "raid  of  an 
intolerable  egotist  across  the  disordered  beginning  of  a 
new  time";  "his  little  imitative  imagination  was  full  of 
a  deep  cunning  dream  of  being  Caesar  all  over  again." 
He  had  wonderful  opportunities  for  creating  a  new  world; 
and  "there  lacked  nothing  to  this  great  occasion  but  a 
noble  imagination,  and  failing  that,  Napoleon  could  do  no 
more  than  strut  upon  the  crest  of  this  great  mountain  of 
opportunity  like  a  cockerel  on  a  dunghill." 


The  account  of  the  nineteenth  century  opens  with  a 
description  of  the  Industrial  Revolution  which  is  good; 


226  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

but  it  is  not  as  good  as  might  be  expected  from  Mr. 
Wells,  who  all  his  life  has  been  interested  in  matters  so- 
cial and  economic.  What  follows  this  account  it  is  hard 
for  me  to  state  exactly.  There  is  little  in  it,  political, 
economic,  or  cultural,  that  I  recognize  as  nineteenth- 
century  history.  The  unification  of  Germany  and  of 
Italy  get  a  nonchalant  page  or  two;  the  reform  move- 
ments in  England  hardly  a  mention;  the  United  States 
barely  a  page.  Of  France,  Russia,  Austria,  and  Spain, 
there  is  little  that  is  worth  noting;  not  a  word  of  indus- 
trial Germany  or  England;  nothing  about  social  legisla- 
tion; nothing  about  the  relation  of  church  and  state; 
nothing  of  literature  and  art.  For  Mr.  Wells,  Mazzini, 
John  Bright,  and  Gambetta  never  lived;  and  Bismarck, 
Disraeli,  and  Cavour  barely  existed.  There  is  not  a  word 
about  the  woman's  movement;  and  for  this  omission  I 
leave  the  author  of  Ann  Veronica  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  the  psychoanalysts. 

What  then  is  the  chapter,  a  hundred  pages  long,  about  ? 
It  is  all  about  Mr.  Wells — Mr.  Wells's  view  of  this,  of 
that,  and  of  the  other  person  or  thing.  Digressions  and 
digressions  from  digressions  devour  most  of  the  precious 
pages.  As  I  am  especially  interested  in  the  nineteenth 
century  I  was  dismayed.  I  read  the  chapter  over  again 
and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Wells  did 
have  in  mind  an  original  way  of  treating  this  period:  to 
make  a  study  of  Darwin,  Marx,  and  Gladstone  as  the 
truly  great  personalities  of  the  century.  The  selection 
is  a  happy  one.  With  these  personalities  as  a  basis  he 
could  have  written  a  study  of  the  scientific,  the  revolu- 
tionary, and  the  liberal  movements  of  the  period  that 
would  have  been  original  and  profound.  But  he  fails 
utterly. 

There  is  a  fairly  good  description  of  the  influence  of 
Darwinism,  though  it  is  not  brought  up  to  date.  For 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  227 

example,  Mr.  Wells  wholly  overlooks  the  recent  criticisms 
of  the  doctrine  of  " natural  selection."  He  shows  how 
Darwinism  was  perverted  by  Kiplingism;  and  he  actually 
devotes  a  whole  page  to  Stalky  and  Co.  to  explain  how 
Kipling  led  the  "children  of  the  middle  and  upper  class 
British  public  back  to  the  Jungle  to  learn  'the  law.'" 
Nothing  more  does  the  author  tell  us  about  the  progress 
of  science  during  the  nineteenth  century. 

The  explanation  of  socialism  is  scrappy  and  totally  in- 
adequate. Mr.  Wells  devotes  four  pages  to  Robert  Owen 
and  not  a  word  to  Saint-Simon  or  Fourier!  To  Karl 
Marx  and  his  ideas  he  devotes  a  page,  and  a  very  poor 
page.  From  the  Outline  one  can  get  almost  no  idea  of 
the  meaning  of  Marxism,  now  of  overshadowing  interest 
to  the  world.  Mr.  Wells  fights  shy  of  Marx.  For  a 
moment  he  hovers  over  Marx's  beard,  and  then  flees, 
fearful  of  being  entangled  in  that  vast,  "uneventful" 
growth. 

No  sooner  does  the  Outline  mention  the  name  of  Glad- 
stone than  the  author  lashes  himself  into  a  fury  and  falls 
upon  that  mirror  of  Christian  statesmanship  with  hammer 
and  tongs.  He  calls  Gladstone  a  profoundly  ignorant 
man,  who  "was  educated  at  Eton  College  and  at  Christ 
Church,  Oxford,  and  his  mind  never  recovered  from  the 
process."  The  description  of  Gladstone  is  unforgetable: 
"He  was  a  white-faced,  black-haired  man  of  incredible 
energy,  with  eyes  like  an  eagle's,  wrath  almost  divine, 
and  the  'finest  barytone  voice  in  Europe.'"  Mr.  Wells 
brings  a  strange  accusation  against  Gladstone,  namely, 
that  he  made  "nationality  his  guiding  political  principle." 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that,  at  this  charge,  Ernest  Barker 
and  Gilbert  Murray  fire  volleys  of  protests  from  the  foot- 
notes, Mr.  Wells  continues  to  belabor  Gladstone  with 
undiminished  zeal. 

We  now  come  to  Ireland.     At  the  hand  of  Mr.  Wells 


228  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

Ireland  fares  badly  indeed.  His  treatment  of  the  Irish 
Question  is  pervaded  by  a  marked  anti-Irish  bias.  When- 
ever Ireland  comes  into  the  Outline  she  comes  in  for  a 
sound  drubbing.  Mr.  Wells  reproaches  the  Irish  for 
having  "a  long  memory  for  their  own  wrongs"  and  actually 
condones  England's  indifference.  He  slides  over  and 
even  excuses  Cromwell's  massacres.  The  great  loss  of 
population  in  Ireland  during  the  nineteenth  century  he 
lays  to  the  overcultivation  of  the  potato;  and  he  says 
nothing  of  English  landlordism  with  its  " rack-renting" 
and  of  the  savage  persecution  of  the  Irish.  Now  and  then 
the  readers  of  the  Outline  will  be  astonished  at  exhibitions 
of  prejudice,  strange  indeed  in  a  man  like  Mr.  Wells, 
whose  outlook  is  as  wide  as  the  world  itself.  He  unmis- 
takably dislikes  the  "dark  whites,"  or  Mediterranean 
peoples,  and  greatly  admires  the  "Nordic"  races,  or 
northern  Europeans.  This  comes  out  very  strongly  in 
his  treatment  of  the  Irish  who,  he  says,  are  "of  the  dark 
1  Mediterranean'  strain,  pre-Nordic  and  pre- Aryan." 
The  "dark  whites"  are  inclined  to  be  superstitious,  but 
the  "Nordics"  are  free,  bold,  and  rational.  "The  Eng- 
lish were  naturally  a  non-sacerdotal  people;  they  had  the 
Northman's  dislike  for  and  disbelief  in  priests";  but  the 
Irish  "found  the  priest  congenial." 

At  last  we  come  to  the  World  War.  The  fundamental 
cause  was  the  "Great  Power"  game  that  Europe  had  been 
playing  since  the  seventeenth  century  and  which  now 
culminated  in  universal  slaughter.  "All  the  great  states 
of  Europe  before  1914,"  declares  Mr.  Wells,  "were  in  a 
condition  of  aggressive  nationalism  and  drifting  toward 
war;  the  government  of  Germany  did  but  lead  in  the 
general  movement."  He  gives  a  brief  and  spirited  ac- 
count of  the  war,  which  he  believes  could  have  been  ended 
before  1916,  had  the  Allied  army  chiefs  consented  to  use 
the  tank  sooner.  "But  the  professional  military  mind  is 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  229 

by  necessity  an  inferior  and  unimaginative  mind;  no  man 
of  high  intellectual  quality  would  willingly  imprison  his 
gifts  in  such  a  calling."  Mr.  Wells's  judgment  of  the 
Peace  Conference  follows  closely  that  of  Mr.  Keynes; 
for  the  story  of  the  Conference  he  relies  mainly  on  Mr. 
Dillon's  gossipy  book. 

In  Book  IX  the  historian  becomes  prophet.  He 
climbs  to  the  top  of  a  high  mountain  to  view  the  Promised 
Land  of  Future  Humanity.  In  the  distance,  he  sees 
humanity  attaining  its  goal  after  the  long,  dreary  march 
through  the  centuries.  In  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
chapters  of  the  book,  Man's  Coming  of  Age,  he  describes 
this  goal,  "a  world  league  of  men,"  peaceful  and  happy. 
What  does  Mr.  Wells  the  prophet  see? 

(1)  A  world  with  a  common  religion,  neither  Christi- 
anity, Islam,  nor  Buddhism,  but  "religion  itself,  pure  and 
undefiled." 

(2)  A  system  of  world  education. 

(3)  A  world  in  which  there  are  no  armies,  no  navies, 
and  no  unemployed. 

(4)  A  universal  organization  for  scientific  research. 

(5)  A  democratic  world  government. 

(6)  An  economic  order  in  which  private  enterprise  ex- 
ploits natural  resources  no  longer  as  a  " robber  master" 
but  as  "a  useful,  valued,  and  well-rewarded  servant." 

(7)  An  honest  and  efficient  electoral  system. 

(8)  An  honest  and  efficient  currency  system. 

This  world  order  must  inevitably  come,  for  "human 
history  becomes  more  and  more  a  race  between  educa- 
tion and  catastrophe."  The  element  in  the  population 
that  will  lead  mankind  to  the  World  State  is  that  be- 
tween the  upper  and  the  working  classes,  an  element 
"  capable  of  being  aroused  to  a  sense  not  merely  of  wicked- 
ness but  of  the  danger  of  systematic  self-seeking  in  a 
strained,  impoverished,  and  sorely  tried  world."  This 


230  THE   CRITICAL  ESSAY 

bourgeois  edaire*  must  inaugurate  an  educational  and  re- 
ligious revival  to  enlighten  all  classes  "by  pen  and  per- 
suasion, in  schools  and  colleges  and  books,  and  in  the 
highways  and  byways  of  public  life." 

VI 

Is  Mr.  Wells  one  of  the  immortals?  It  would  hardly 
be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  he  has  been  the  most  in- 
fluential writer  in  English  of  our  day.  And  his  influ- 
ence has  not  been  merely  literary.  He  has  the  power, 
rare  in  a  novelist,  of  affecting  directly  and  profoundly 
the  political  and  social  views  of  his  readers.  Then  there 
is  that  manner  of  his,  that  spiritual-romantic  manner, 
that  invites  you  to  go  with  him  in  the  search  for  the  Holy 
Grail  of  social  salvation.  If  ever  there  was  a  man  who 
viewed  society  as  a  spiritual  organism,  that  man  is  Mr. 
Wells.  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  the  fine  spirits 
among  the  rising  generation  have  looked  to  him  as  the 
prophet  of  a  new  and  nobler  order  of  society.  And  yet 
I  say,  and  I  say  it  regretfully,  that  in  my  opinion  Mr. 
Wells  is  not  an  immortal.  He  will  not  pass  into  future 
generations.  My  reading  of  the  Outline  has  convinced 
me  of  it  more  than  ever.  In  this  book,  as  in  his  others, 
he  shows  his  fatal  weakness.  The  beginnings  of  a  Wells 
book  are  superb,  wonderful,  inspiring.  The  problem  pre- 
sented is  a  universal  one,  and  the  characters  approach  it 
with  magnificent  strides.  The  reader  feels  that  he  is 
about  to  see  a  solution  of  the  problem  worthy  of  its 
greatness.  Or  perhaps  Mr.  Wells,  like  Michelangelo  and 
Rodin,  will  leave  his  creation  superbly  unfinished,  because 
he  feels  himself  inadequate  to  express  the  greatness  of 
his  concepts.  But  what  does  take  place?  When  you 
are  about  half-way  through,  there  is  a  break;  a  sudden 

*  Bourgeois  6dair6,  enlightened  middle  class. 


J.   SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  281 

descent  begins;  and  the  book  fizzles  out  completely  in 
the  end.  Over  and  over  again  have  I  had  this  sad  ex- 
perience. Ann  Veronica  is  in  revolt  against  her  family 
and  society.  She  runs  away  from  home  to  live  her  own 
life,  to  save  her  own  soul,  to  earn  her  own  living.  In 
the  end,  she  marries  and  lives  happy  ever  after.  Rem- 
ington in  The  New  Machiavelli  is  appalled  at  the  human 
waste  and  confusion  of  present  society.  In  a  "white 
passion  of  statecraft "  he  dreams  of  a  new  statesmanship 
that  will  end  this  muddle.  What  does  he  do?  He  es- 
tablishes institutions  for  the  Endowment  of  Motherhood. 
Stratton  in  The  Passionate  Friends  desires  to  be  truly 
a  "world  man."  He  goes  to  Africa,  to  Asia,  to  America 
to  study  world  problems  in  order  to  deal  efficiently  with 
them.  At  last  he  finds  a  way.  He  establishes  an  inter- 
national publishing  house  that  sells  cheap  editions  of  good 
books.  Trafford  in  Marriage  is  a  great  scientist  who 
is  driven  into  commercialism  by  the  needs  of  an  extrava- 
gant wife.  He  is  distraught,  so  he  and  his  wife  go  to  the 
wilds  of  Labrador  to  think  it  over.  There  he  finds  that 
he  cares  more  for  his  wife  than  for  anything  else.  He 
returns  home  happy,  and  does — nothing.  Lady  Harman 
in  The  Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harman  resents  the  possessive 
attitude  of  her  wealthy  husband.  She  has  dreams  of 
beauty  and  of  freedom,  and  falls  in  love  with  an  artistic 
and  intellectual  friend.  She  has  several  daring  adven- 
tures. Suddenly  her  husband  dies.  Now  she  is  free. 
What  does  she  do?  She  devotes  her  life  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  co-operative  apartments  for  the  deserving 
middle  class.  Job  Huss  in  The  Undying  Fire  is  stricken 
with  misfortune.  He  is  ill  of  cancer;  his  school  burns 
down;  his  son  is  reported  dead.  The  problem  of  human 
suffering  is  presented,  truly  a  great  problem.  In  the  end 
Job  Huss  recovers;  his  school  is  rebuilt;  and  his  son  turns 
up  alive.  Desiring  to  devote  his  life  to  the  cause  of  hu- 


232  THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

manity,  Huss  builds  an  Imperial  Institute  that  will  teach 
people  history,  geography,  and  ethnology.  The  Outline 
of  History  begins  in  the  magnificent  way  that  I  have  de- 
scribed. The  plan  of  the  book  is  given  in  bold  strokes. 
It  is  to  rewrite  history  so  that  the  great  purpose  of  the 
life  of  man  on  earth  shall  become  evident.  At  last  his- 
tory has  found  its  true  use,  to  discover  the  future.  And 
what  is  humanity's  future,  according  to  Mr.  Wells's 
prophecy?  It  is  a  vague,  sentimental,  middle-class, 
middle-age,  mid- Victorian  vision  of  peace  and  prosperity. 
What  is  there  in  this  vision  to  which  Samuel  Smiles  would 
have  objected !  Was  it  for  this  that  the  hairy  ape-man 
shambled  into  full  humanity!  Was  this  to  be  the  out- 
come 

Of  Caesar's  hand  and  Plato's  brain, 

Of  Lord  Christ's  heart  and  Shakespeare's  strain ! 

What  ails  Mr.  Wells?  What  is  the  disease  that  proves 
him  mortal?  This  is  what  I  now  propose  to  diagnose. 
Mr.  Wells  is  a  man  of  extraordinary  imagination,  ex- 
traordinary both  for  its  vividness  and  versatility;  it  is 
poetic,  scientific,  religious,  social,  political,  literary.  In 
my  opinion  he  is  the  most  highly  imaginative  human 
being  now  living.  But  his  intellect  is  not  extraordinary. 
Toward  the  great  problems  of  the  world  his  imagination 
makes  a  magnificent  stride;  but  his  intellect  cannot  keep 
pace  with  it.  Hence  in  the  realm  of  ideas  he  is  sugges- 
tive, not  creative.  He  arouses,  he  stimulates,  he  throws 
out  fine  hints,  he  suggests  new  ways  of  looking  at  things; 
but  he  is  utterly  incapable  of  being  the  architect  of  any 
new  system  of  thought,  be  it  political,  social,  moral,  or 
philosophical.  Condemned  to  sterility,  he  becomes  sen- 
timental and  half-mystical.  Whenever  he  does  succeed 
in  giving  birth  to  an  idea,  it  immediately  expires  in  a 
sigh.  What  political  theories  has  he  fashioned  comparable 


J.  SALWYN  SCHAPIRO  233 

to  those  of  Rousseau,  Locke,  or  Mill?  What  social  the- 
ories, comparable  to  those  of  Comte  or  Saint-Simon? 
What  interpretation  of  history  comparable  to  that  of 
Buckle  or  of  Marx?  Indeed,  what  characters  in  fiction 
has  he  created  that  have  the  immortality  of  Emma 
Bovary,  Pere  Goriot,  Pickwick,  Anna  Karenina,  Rudin, 
Becky  Sharp,  Bergeret,  Raskolnikov,  Pecksniff,  or  Tess 
of  the  D'Urbervilles? 

The  Outline,  with  all  its  shortcomings,  is  nevertheless 
a  tour  de  force  such  as  only  a  remarkably  versatile  man 
like  Mr.  Wells  could  have  accomplished.  It  gives  a  new 
model  for  the  writing  of  history,  with  its  magnificent 
sweep,  wide  range,  deep  sympathies,  and  progressive 
view-point.  Once  immersed  in  these  volumes,  students 
of  history  no  less  than  others  will  gain  an  indelible  im- 
pression of  going  through  a  great  and  abiding  experi- 
ence. To  read  the  book  is  in  itself  a  liberal  education. 


THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

JOSEPH  ADDISON 

FEMALE  ORATORS 


Joseph  Addison  (1672-1719)  is  the  foremost  figure 
among  the  essayists  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  was 
the  son  of  an  English  clergyman,  in  a  country  parish.  He 
was  sent  to  Oxford,  and  completed  his  education  by  Euro- 
pean travel.  He  gained  literary  recognition  by  a  poem 
on  the  battle  of  Blenheim,  and  was  rewarded  by  various 
political  offices.  When  his  friend  Steele  began  the  Tatler, 
Addison  contributed  a  number  of  essays  to  it,  and  in  the 
Spectator  the  two  men  worked  together. 

The  age  in  which  they  lived  was  a  coarse  one.  Profane 
speech  and  bad  manners  were  the  fashion.  Addison  was 
too  shrewd  a  man  to  attack  these  things  directly,  or  to 
denounce  them  violently;  that  would  only  bring  ridicule 
upon  him.  But  if  he  could  adroitly  manage  to  make  these 
things  appear  ridiculous,  he  might  gain  his  end.  So  in 
the  Spectator  he  introduces  imaginary  characters,  and 
has  these  personages  discuss  the  manners  and  follies  of 
the  day.  The  two  essays  here  printed  deal  with  condi- 
tions not  peculiar  to  Addison's  age:  female  orators  and 
people  who  are  constantly  worrying  about  their  health 
we  have  always  with  us. 

The  style  of  Addison  has  always  been  considered  a 
model  of  English  prose.  Franklin  in  his  autobiography 
tells  how  he  improved  his  style  by  imitating  Addison, 
in  the  same  way  that  Stevenson  describes  in  A  College 
Magazine.  Samuel  Johnson  said:  "Whoever  would  at- 
tain an  English  style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  elegant 
but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  days  and  nights  to 
the  study  of  Addison." 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 

FEMALE  ORATORS 
(From  the  Spectator,  December  13,  1711) 

We  are  told  by  some  ancient  authors,  that  Socrates 
was  instructed  in  eloquence  by  a  woman,  whose  name,  if 
Ixajn_._not  mistaken,  was  Aspasia.  I  have  indeed  very 
often  looked  upon  that  art  as  the  most  proper  for  the 
female  sex,  and  I  think  the  universities  would  do  well  to 
consider  whether  they  should  not  fill  the  rhetoric  chairs 
with  she  professors. 

It  has  been  said  in  the  praise  of  some  men,  that  they 
could  talk  whole  hours  together  upon  anything;  but  it 
must  be  owned  to  the  honor  of  the  other  sex,  that  there 
are  many  among  them  who  can  talk  whole  hours  together 
upon  nothing.  I  have  known  a  woman  branch  out  into 
a  long  extempore  dissertation  upon  the  edging  of  a  petti- 
coat, and  chide  her  servant  for  breaking  a  china  cup,  in 
all  the  figures  of  rhetoric. 

Were  women  admitted  to  plead  in  courts  of  judicature, 
I  am  persuaded  they  would  carry  the  eloquence  of  the 
bar  to  greater  heights  than  it  has  yet  arrived  at.  If  any 
one  doubts  this,  let  him  but  be  present  at  those  debates 
which  frequently  arise  among  the  ladies  of  the  British 
fishery.* 

The  first  kind  therefore  of  female  orators  which  I 
shall  take  notice  of,  are  those  who  are  employed  in  stir- 
ring up  the  passions,  a  part  of  rhetoric  in  which  Socrates 

*  British  fishery,  a  playful  reference  to  the  famous  fish-market  at 
Billingsgate.  The  women  who  kept  the  stalls  were  so  noted  for 
profanity  that  the  word  billingsgate  came  to  mean  profane  or  scurri- 
lous speeeh. 

237 


238  THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

his  wife  *  had  perhaps  made  a  greater  proficiency  than 
his  above-mentioned  teacher. 

The  second  kind  of  female  orators  are  those  who  deal 
in  invectives,  and  who  are  commonly  known  by  the  name 
of  the  censorious.  The  imagination  and  elocution  of 
this  set  of  rhetoricians  is  wonderful.  With  what  a  flu- 
ency of  invention,  and  copiousness  of  expression,  will 
they  enlarge  upon  every  little  slip  in  the  behavior  of 
another !  With  how  many  different  circumstances,  and 
with  what  variety  of  phrases,  will  they  tell  over  the  same 
story!  I  have  known  an  old  lady  make  an  unhappy 
marriage  the  subject  of  a  month's  conversation.  She 
blamed  the  bride  in  one  place;  pitied  her  in  another; 
laughed  at  her  in  a  third;  wondered  at  her  in  a  fourth; 
was  angry  with  her  in  a  fifth;  and  in  short,  wore  out  a 
pah*  of  coach-horses  in  expressing  her  concern  for  her. 
At  length,  after  having  quite  exhausted  the  subject  on 
this  side,  she  made  a  visit  to  the  new-married  pan*,  praised 
the  wife  for  the  prudent  choice  she  had  made,  told  her 
the  unreasonable  reflections  which  some  malicious  people 
had  cast  upon  her,  and  desired  that  they  might  be  better 
acquainted.  The  censure  and  approbation  of  this  kind 
of  women  are  therefore  only  to  be  considered  as  helps 
to  discourse. 

A  third  kind  of  female  orators  may  be  comprehended 
under  the  word  gossips.  Mrs.  Fiddle  Faddle  is  perfectly 
accomplished  in  this  sort  of  eloquence;  she  launches  out 
into  descriptions  of  christenings,  runs  divisions  upon  an 
head-dress,  knows  every  dish  of  meat  that  is  served  up 
in  her  neighborhood,  and  entertains  her  company  a  whole 
afternoon  together  with  the  wit  of  her  little  boy,  before 
he  is  able  to  speak. 

The  coquet  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  fourth  kind  of 
female  orator.  To  give  herself  the  larger  field  for  dis- 
*  His  wife,  modern  usage  would  be,  Socrates's  wife. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  239 

course,  she  hates  and  loves  in  the  same  breath,  talks  to 
her  lap-dog  or  parrot,  is  uneasy  in  all  kinds  of  weather 
I  in  every  part  of  the  room:  she  has  false  quarrels  and 
feigned  obligations  to  all  the  men  of  her  acquaintance; 
sighs  when  she  is  not  sad,  and  laughs  when  she  is  not 
merry.  The  coquet  is  in  particular  a  great  mistress  of 
that  part  of  oratory  which  is  called  action,  and  indeed 
seems  to  speak  for  no  other  purpose,  but  as  it  gives  her 
an  opportunity  of  stirring  a  limb,  or  varying  a  feature, 
of  glancing  her  eyes,  or  playing  with  her  fan. 

As  for  news-mongers,  politicians,  mimics,  story-tellers, 
with  other  characters  of  that  nature,  which  give  birth  to 
loquacity,  they^  are^  as  commonly  found  among  the  men 
as  the  wpjaen;  for  which  reason  I  shall  pass  them  over  in 

I  have  often  been  puzzled  to  assign  a  cause  why  women 
should  have  this  talent  of  a  ready  utterance  in  so  much 
greater  perfection  than  men.  |Hrave  -sometimes  fancied 
that  they  have  not  a  retentive  power,  or  the  faculty  of 
suppressing  their  thoughts,  as  men  have,  but  that  they 
are  necessitated  to  speak  everything  they  think,  and  if 
so,  it  would  perhaps  furnish  a  very  strong  argument  to 
the  Cartesians,  for  the  supporting  of  their  doctrine  that 
the  soul  always  thinks.     But  as  several  are  of  opinion 
that  the  fair  sex  are  not  altogether  strangers  to  the  art 
of  dissembling  and  concealing  their  thoughts,  I  have  been 
forced  to  relinquish  that  opinion,  and  have  therefore  en- 
deavored to  seek  after  some  better  reason.     In  order  to 
-k^a  friend  of  mine,  who  is  an  excellent  anatomist,  has 
promised  me  by  the  first  opportunity  to  dissect  a  woman's 
tongue,  and  to  examine  whether  there  may  not  be  in  it 
certain  juices  which  render  it  so  wonderfully  voluble  or 
flippant,  or  whether  the  fibres  of  it  may  not  be  made  up 
of  a  finer  or  more  pliant  thread,  or  whether  there  are  not 
in  it  some  particular  muscles  which  dart  it  up  and  down 


240  THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

by  such  sudden  glances  and  vibrations;  or  whether  in  the 
last  place,  there  may  not  be  certain  undiscovered  chan- 
nels running  from  the  head  and  the  heart  to  this  little 
instrument  of  loquacity,  and  conveying  into  it  a  perpetual 
affluence  of  animal  spirits.  Nor  must  I  omit  the  reason 
which  Hudibras  *  has  given,  why  those  who  can  talk  on 
trifles  speak  with  the  greatest  fluency;  namely,  that  the 
tongue  is  like  a  race-horse,  which  runs  the  faster  the  lesser 
weight  it  carries. 

Which  of  these  reasons  soever  may  be  looked  upon  as 
the  most  probable/  I  think  the  Irishman's  thought  was 
very  natural,  who  after  some  hours'  conversation  with  a 
female  orator,  told  her,  that  he  believed  her  tongue  was 
very  glad  when  she  was  asleep,  for  that  it  had  not  a  mo- 
ment's rest  all  the  while  she  was  awake. 

TJiat  excellent  old  ballad  of  The  Wanton  Wife  of  Bath 
has  the  following  remarkable  lines: 

J  think,  quoth  Thomas,  Women's  Tongues 
S0f  Aspen  Leaves  are  made. 

And  Ovid,  though  in  the  description  of  a  very  bar- 
barous circumstance,  tells  us,  that  when  the  tongue  of  a 
beautiful  female  was  cut  out,  and  thrown  upon  the 
ground,  it  could  not  forbear  muttering  even  in  that  pos- 
ture. 

If  a  tongue  would  be  talking  without  a  mouth,  what 
could  it  have  done  when  it  had  all  its  organs  of  speech, 
and  accomplices  of  sound  ajbout  it?  I  might  here  men- 
tion the  story  of  the  pippin-wbinan,  had  not  I  some  reason 
to  look  upon  it  as  fabulous. 

I  must  confess  I  am  so  wonderfully  charmed  with  the 
music  of  this  little  instrument,  that  I  would  by  no  means 
discourage  it.  All  that  I  aim  at  by  this  dissertation  is, 
to  cure  it  of  several  disagreeable  notes,  and  in  particular 

*  Hudibras,  the  title  of  a  famous  satirical  poem  by  Samuel  Butler. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  241 

of  those  little  j  airings  and  dissonances  which  arise  from 
anger,  censoriousness,  gossiping  and  coquetry.  In  short, 
I  would  always  have  it  tuned  by  good  nature,  truth,  dis- 
cretion and  sincerity. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 
LIVING  IN  A  PAIR  OF  SCALES 


Letters  to  the  editor  appear  in  almost  every  journal. 
Although  the  editors  of  the  Spectator  did  not  publish  their 
names,  in  the  first  number  of  the  paper  they  gave  an  ad- 
dress to  which  letters  might  be  sent.  These  letters  often 
provided  material  for  an  essay.  Sometimes  the  editors 
wrote  these  letters  themselves,  as  one  might  set  up  a 
straw  man  merely  to  knock  him  down.  Such  is  the  case 
with  the  letter  in  the  essay  that  follows.  In  plan,  the 
essay  is  typical  of  many  of  the  Spectator  papers,  and  in- 
deed of  the  periodical  essay  of  that  period.  The  editor 
first  introduces  an  imaginary  character  who  is  to  per- 
sonify some  weakness  of  human  nature;  in  this  case  it 
is  the  man  who  lived  in  a  pair  of  scales.  When  he  has 
been  brought  forward,  and  made  to  appear  sufficiently 
ridiculous,  the  editor  then  dismisses  him  and  proceeds 
to  comment  upon  the  trait  of  character  shown,  with 
advice  as  to  a  better  course  of  conduct.  Note  the  play 
of  quiet  humor  in  the  essay. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 

LIVING  IN  A  PAIR  OF  SCALES 

(From  the  Spectator,  March  29,  1711) 

The  following  letter  will  explain  itself,  and  needs  no 
apology. 

"SIR, 

"  I  am  one  of  that  sickly  tribe  who  are  commonly  known 
by  the  name  of  valetudinarians,  and  do  confess  to  you, 
that  I  first  contracted  this  ill  habit  of  body,  or  rather  of 
mind,  by  the  study  of  physic.  I  no  sooner  began  to 
peruse  books  of  this  nature,  but  I  found  my  pulse  was 
irregular,  and  scarce  ever  read  the  account  of  any  disease 
that  I  did  not  fancy  myself  afflicted  with.  Dr.  Syden- 
ham's  learned  treatise  of  fevers  threw  me  into  a  lingering 
hectic,  which  hung  upon  me  all  the  while  I  was  reading 
that  excellent  piece.  I  then  applied  myself  to  the  study 
of  several  authors,  who  have  written  upon  phthisical  dis- 
tempers, and  by  that  means  fell  into  a  consumption,  ;til 
at  length,  growing  very  fat,  I  was  in  a  manner  shamed  out 
of  that  imagination.  Not  long  after  this  I  found  in  my- 
self all  the  symptoms  of  the  gout,  except  pain,  but  was 
cured  of  it  by  a  treatise  upon  the  gravel,  written  by  a 
very  ingenious  author,  who  (as  it  is  usual  for  physicians 
to  convert  one  distemper  into  another)  eased  me  of  the 
gout  by  giving  me  the  stone.  I  at  length  studied  myself 
into  a  complication  of  distempers;  but  accidentally  taking 
into  my  hand  that  ingenious  discourse  written  by  Sanc- 
torius  I  was  resolved  to  direct  myself  by  a  scheme  of 
rules,  which  I  had  collected  from  his  observations.  The 
learned  world  are  very  well  acquainted  with  that  gentle* 

245 


246  THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

man's  invention;  who,  for  the  better  carrying  on  of  his 
experiments,  contrived  a  certain  mathematical  chair, 
which  was  so  artificially  hung  upon  springs,  that  it  would 
weigh  anything  as  well  as  a  pair  of  scales.  By  this  means 
he  discovered  how  many  ounces  of  his  food  passed  by 
perspiration,  what  quantity  of  it  was  turned  into  nour- 
ishment, and  how  much  went  away  by  the  other  channels 
and  distributions  of  nature. 

"Having  provided  myself  with  this  chair,  I  used  to 
study,  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  in  it;  in  so  much  that  I  may  be 
said,  for  these  three  last  years,  to  have  lived  in  a  pair  of 
scales.  I  compute  myself,  when  I  am  in  full  health,  to 
be  precisely  two  hundredweight,  falling  short  of  it  about 
a  pound  after  a  day's  fast,  and  exceeding  it  as  much  after 
a  very  full  meal;  so  that  it  is  my  continual  employment, 
to  trim  the  balance  between  these  two  volatile  pounds 
in  my  constitution.  In  my  ordinary  meals  I  fetch  my- 
self up  to  two  hundredweight  and  a  half  pound;  and 
if  after  having  dined  I  find  myself  fall  short  of  it,  I  drink 
just  so  much  small  beer,  or  eat  such  a  quantity  of  bread, 
as  is  sufficient  to  make  me  weight.  In  my  greatest  ex- 
cesses I  do  not  transgress  more  than  the  other  half  pound; 
which,  for  my  health's  sake,  I  do  the  first  Monday  in 
every  month.  As  soon  as  I  find  myself  duly  poised  after 
dinner,  I  walk  till  I  have  perspired  five  ounces  and  four 
scruples;  and  when  I  discover,  by  my  chair,  that  I  am  so 
far  reduced,  I  fall  to  my  books,  and  study  away  three 
ounces  more.  As  for  the  remaining  parts  of  the  pound, 
I  keep  no  account  of  them.  I  do  not  dine  and  sup  by 
the  clock,  but  by  my  chair,  for  when  that  informs  me 
my  pound  of  food  is  exhausted  I  conclude  myself  to  be 
hungry,  and  lay  in  another  with  all  diligence.  In  my 
days  of  abstinence  I  lose  a  pound  and  a  half,  and  on 
solemn  fasts  am  two  pound  lighter  than  on  other  days  in 
the  year. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  247 

"I  allow  myself,  one  night  with  another,  a  quarter  of 
a  pound  of  sleep  within  a  few  grains  more  or  less;  and  if 
upon  my  rising  I  find  that  I  have  not  consumed  my  whole 
quantity,  I  take  out  the  rest  in  my  chair.  Upon  an  exact 
calculation  of  what  I  expended  and  received  the  last 
year,  which  I  always  register  in  a  book,  I  find  the  medium 
to  be  two  hundredweight,  so  that  I  cannot  discover  that 
I  am  impaired  one  ounce  in  my  health  during  a  whole 
twelve-month.  And  yet,  Sir,  notwithstanding  this  my 
great  care  to  ballast  myself  equally  every  day,  and  to 
keep  my  body  in  its  proper  poise,  so  it  is  that  I  find  my- 
self in  a  sick  and  languishing  condition.  My  complexion 
is  grown  very  sallow,  my  pulse  low,  and  my  body  hy- 
dropsical.  Let  me  therefore  beg  you,  Sir,  to  consider  me 
as  your  patient,  and  to  give  me  more  certain  rules  to  walk 
by  than  those  I  have  already  observed,  and  you  will  very 
much  oblige  Your  Humbk  Sermnt>, 

This  letter  puts  me  in  mind  of  an  Italian  epitaph 
written  on  the  monument  of  a  valetudinarian:  Stavo  ben, 
ma  per  star  meglio,  sto  qui:*  which  it  is  impossible  to 
translate.  The  fear  of  death  often  proves  mortal,  and 
sets  people  on  methods  to  save  their  lives,  which  infal- 
libly destroy  them.  This  is  a  reflection  made  by  some 
historians,  upon  observing  that  there  are  many  more 
thousands  killed  in  a  flight  than  in  a  battle,  and  may  be 
applied  to  those  multitudes  of  imaginary  sick  persons 
that  break  their  constitutions  by  physic,  and  throw  them- 
selves into  the  arms  of  death,  by  endeavoring  to  escape 
it.  This  method  is  not  only  dangerous,  but  below  the 
practice  of  a  reasonable  creature.  To  consult  the  preser- 
vation of  life,  as  the  only  end  of  it,  to  make  our  health 
our  business,  to  engage  in  no  action  that  is  not  part  of  a 

*  Stavo  ben,  etc.  It  may  be  freely  translated  thus:  I  was  well,  I 
would  be  better,  and  here  I  am. 


248  THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

regimen,  or  course  of  physic,  are  purposes  so  abject,  so 
mean,  so  unworthy  human  nature,  that  a  generous  soul 
would  rather  die  than  submit  to  them.  Besides  that  a 
continual  anxiety  for  life  vitiates  all  the  relishes  of  it, 
and  casts  a  gloom  over  the  whole  face  of  nature;  as  it  is 
impossible  we  should  take  delight  in  anything  that  we 
are  every  moment  afraid  of  losing. 

I  do  not  mean,  by  what  I  have  here  said,  that  I  think 
any  one  to  blame  for  taking  due  care  of  their  health.  On 
the  contrary,  as  cheerfulness  of  mind  and  capacity  for 
business  are  in  a  great  measure  the  effects  of  a  well-tem- 
pered constitution,  a  man  cannot  be  at  too  much  pains 
to  cultivate  and  preserve  it.  But  this  care,  which  we  are 
prompted  to  not  only  by  common  sense  but  by  duty  and 
instinct,  should  never  engage  us  in  groundless  fears, 
melancholy  apprehensions  and  imaginary  distempers, 
which  are  natural  to  every  man  who  is  more  anxious  to 
live  than  how  to  live.  In  short,  the  preservation  of  life 
should  be  only  a  secondary  concern,  and  the  direction  of 
it  our  principal.  If  we  have  this  frame  of  mind,  we  shall 
take  the  best  means  to  preserve  life,  without  being  over- 
solicitous  about  the  event;  and  shall  arrive  at  that  point 
of  felicity  which  Martial  has  mentioned  as  the  perfection 
of  happiness,  of  neither  fearing  nor  wishing  for  death. 

In  answer  to  the  gentleman  who  tempers  his  health 
by  ounces  and  by  scruples,  and  instead  of  complying  with 
those  natural  solicitations  of  hunger  and  thirst,  drowsiness 
or  love  of  exercise,  governs  himself  by  the  prescriptions  of 
his  chair,  I  shall  tell  him  a  short  fable.  Jupiter,  says  the 
mythologist,  to  reward  the  piety  of  a  certain  countryman 
promised  to  give  him  whatever  he  would  ask.  The 
countryman  desired  that  he  might  have  the  management 
of  the  weather  in  his  own  estate.  He  obtained  his  request, 
and  immediately  distributed  rain,  snow,  and  sunshine, 
among  his  several  fields,  as  he  thought  the  nature  of  the 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  249 

soil  required.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  when  he  expected 
to  see  a  more  than  ordinary  crop,  his  harvest  fell  infinitely 
short  of  that  of  his  neighbors.  Upon  which  (says  the 
fable)  he  desired  Jupiter  to  take  the  weather  again  into 
his  own  hands,  or  that  otherwise  he  should  utterly  ruin 
himself. 


RICHARD  STEELE 
THE  STAGE-COACH 


The  following  essay  belongs  in  the  series  known  as  the 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  papers,  which  appeared  in  the 
Spectator.  Its  connection  with  the  series,  however,  is 
confined  to  the  mention  of  Sir  Roger  in  the  first  sentence. 
The  real  subject  of  the  essay  is  behavior  in  public  convey- 
ances. Travellers  by  stage-coach  were  far  more  at  the 
mercy  of  a  quarrelsome  or  impertinent  fellow  passenger 
than  are  travellers  to-day.  In  this  essay  Steele  teaches 
a  needed  lesson,  yet  does  it  with  such  good  humor,  such 
touches  of  wit,  such  deft  characterization,  that  we  are 
pleasantly  carried  along,  and  cannot  help  agreeing  with 
his  conclusion.  It  is  an  excellent  example  of  the  method 
by  which  the  editors  of  the  Spectator  set  about  to  improve 
the  manners  of  the  time.  For  biographical  sketch  of 
Steele,  see  page  2. 


RICHARD  STEELE 

THE  STAGE-COACH 
(From  the  Spectator,  August  1,  1711) 

Having  notified  to  my  good  friend  Sir  Roger  that  I 
should  set  out  for  London  the  next  day,  his  horses  were 
ready  at  the  appointed  hour  in  the  evening;  and  attended 
by  one  of  his  grooms,  I  arrived  at  the  county  town  at 
twilight,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  stage-coach  the  day 
following.  As  soon  as  we  arrived  at  the  inn,  the  servant 
who  waited  upon  me,  inquired  of  the  chamberlain  in  my 
hearing  what  company  he  had  for  the  coach?  The  fellow 
answered,  Mrs.  Betty  Arable,  the  great  fortune,  and  the 
widow  her  mother;  a  recruiting  officer  (who  took  a  place 
because  they  were  to  go);  young  Squire  Quickset  her 
cousin  (that  her  mother  wished  her  to  be  married  to); 
Ephraim  the  Quaker,  her  guardian;  and  a  gentleman  that 
had  studied  himself  dumb  from  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's. 
I  observed  by  what  he  said  of  myself,  that  according  to 
his  office  he  dealt  much  in  intelligence;  and  doubted  not 
but  there  was  some  foundation  for  his  reports  of  the  rest 
of  the  company,  as  well  as  for  the  whimsical  account  he 
gave  of  me.  The  next  morning  at  daybreak  we  were  all 
called;  and  I,  who  know  my  own  natural  shyness,  and 
endeavor  to  be  as  little  liable  to  be  disputed  with  as  pos- 
sible, dressed  immediately,  that  I  might  make  no  one 
wait.  The  first  preparation  for  our  setting  out  was,  that 
the  captain's  half-pike  was  placed  near  the  coachman, 
and  a  drum  behind  the  coach.  In  the  meantime  the 
drummer,  the  captain's  equipage,  was  very  loud,  that 
none  of  the  captain's  things  should  be  placed  so  as  to  be 

253 


254  THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

spoiled;  upon  which  his  cloak  bag  was  fixed  in  the  seat 
of  the  coach;  and  the  captain  himself,  according  to  a 
frequent,  though  invidious  behavior  of  military  men, 
ordered  his  man  to  look  sharp,  that  none  but  one  of  the 
ladies  should  have  the  place  he  had  taken  fronting  to 
the  coach  box. 

We  were  in  some  little  time  fixed  in  our  seats,  and  sat 
with  that  dislike  which  people  not  too  good-natured 
usually  conceive  of  each  other  at  first  sight.  The  coach 
jumbled  us  insensibly  into  some  sort  of  familiarity:  and 
we  had  not  moved  above  two  miles,  when  the  widow  asked 
the  captain  what  success  he  had  in  his  recruiting?  The 
officer,  with  a  frankness  he  believed  very  graceful,  told 
her,  "That  indeed  he  had  but  very  little  luck,  and  had 
suffered  much  by  desertion,  therefore  should  be  glad  to 
end  his  warfare  in  the  service  of  her  or  her  fair  daughter. 
In  a  word,"  continued  he,  "I  am  a  soldier,  and  to  be  plain 
is  my  character:  you  see  me,  madam,  young,  sound,  and 
impudent;  take  me  yourself,  widow,  or  give  me  to  her,  I 
will  be  wholly  at  your  disposal.  I  am  a  soldier  of  for- 
tune, ha!"  This  was  followed  by  a  vain  laugh  of  his 
own,  and  a  deep  silence  of  all  the  rest  of  the  company. 
I  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  fall  fast  asleep,  which  I 
did  with  all  speed.  "Come,"  said  he,  "resolve  upon  it, 
we  will  make  a  wedding  at  the  next  town:  we  will  wake 
this  pleasant  companion  who  is  fallen  asleep,  to  be  the 
brideman,"  and  giving  the  Quaker  a  clap  on  the  knee 
he  concluded:  "This  sly  saint,  who,  I'll  warrant,  under- 
stands what's  what  as  well  as  you  or  I,  widow,  shall  give 
the  bride  as  father." 

The  Quaker,  who  happened  to  be  a  man  of  smartness, 
answered:  "Friend,  I  take  it  in  good  part  that  thou  hast 
given  me  the  authority  of  a  father  over  this  comely  and 
virtuous  child;  and  I  must  assure  thee,  that  if  I  have 
the  giving  her,  I  shall  not  bestow  her  on  thee.  Thy  mirth, 


RICHARD  STEELE  255 

friend,  savoreth  of  folly:  thou  art  a  person  of  a  light  mind; 
thy  drum  is  a  type  of  thee,  it  soundeth  because  it  is  empty. 
Verily,  it  is  not  from  thy  fulness,  but  thy  emptiness  that 
thou  hast  spoken  this  day.  Friend,  friend,  we  have  hired 
this  coach  in  partnership  with  thee,  to  carry  us  to  the 
great  city;  we  cannot  go  any  other  way.  This  worthy 
mother  must  hear  thee  if  thou  wilt  needs  utter  thy  follies; 
we  cannot  help  it,  friend,  I  say;  if  thou  wilt  we  must 
hear  thee:  but  if  thou  wert  a  man  of  understanding,  thou 
wouldst  not  take  advantage  of  thy  courageous  counte- 
nance to  abash  us  children  of  peace.  Thou  art,  thou  say- 
est,  a  soldier;  give  quarter  to  us,  who  cannot  resist  thee. 
Why  didst  thou  fleer  at  our  friend,  who  feigned  himself 
asleep?  he  said  nothing:  but  how  dost  thou  know  what 
he  containeth?  If  thou  speakest  improper  things  in  the 
hearing  of  this  virtuous  young  virgin,  consider  it  is  an 
outrage  against  a  distressed  person  that  cannot  get  from 
thee.  To  speak  indiscreetly  what  we  are  obliged  to  hear, 
by  being  hasped  up  with  thee  in  this  public  vehicle,  is 
in  some  degree  assaulting  on  the  highroad." 

Here  Ephraim  paused,  and  the  captain  with  an  happy 
and  uncommon  impudence  (which  can  be  convicted  and 
support  itself  at  the  same  time)  cried:  "Faith,  friend,  I 
thank  thee;  I  should  have  been  a  little  impertinent  if 
thou  hadst  not  reprimanded  me.  Come,  thou  art,  I  see, 
a  smoaky  *  old  fellow,  and  I'll  be  very  orderly  the  ensuing 
part  of  the  journey.  I  was  going  to  give  myself  airs,  but, 
ladies,  I  beg  pardon." 

The  captain  was  so  little  out  of  humor,  and  our  com- 
pany was  so  far  from  being  soured  by  this  little  ruffle, 
that  Ephraim  and  he  took  a  particular  delight  in  being 
agreeable  to  each  other  for  the  future;  and  assumed  their 
different  provinces  in  the  conduct  of  the  company. 

*  Smoaky,  a  slang  phrase  of  the  time,  meaning,  quick  to  smell 
out  an  idea. 


256  THE  EDITORIAL  ESSAY 

reckonings,  apartments,  and  accommodation,  fell  under 
Ephraim;  and  the  captain  looked  to  all  disputes  on  the 
road,  as  the  good  behavior  of  our  coachman,  and  the  right 
we  had  of  taking  place  as  going  to  London  of  all  vehicles 
coming  from  thence.  The  occurrences  we  met  with  were 
ordinary,  and  very  little  happened  which  could  entertain 
by  the  relation  of  them.  But  when  I  considered  the 
company  we  were  in,  I  took  it  for  no  small  good  fortune 
that  the  whole  journey  was  not  spent  in  impertinences, 
which  to  one  part  of  us  might  be  an  entertainment,  to 
the  other  a  suffering.  What  therefore  Ephraim  said  when 
we  were  almost  arrived  at  London,  had  to  me  an  air  not 
only  of  good  understanding  but  good  breeding.  Upon 
the  young  lady's  expressing  her  satisfaction  in  the  journey, 
and  declaring  how  delightful  it  had  been  to  her,  Ephraim 
declared  himself  as  follows:  "There  is  no  ordinary  part 
of  human  life  which  expreseeth  so  much  a  good  mind, 
and  a  right  inward  man,  as  his  behavior  upon  meeting 
with  strangers,  especially  such  as  may  seem  the  most 
unsuitable  companions  to  him;  such  a  man,  when  he 
falleth  in  the  way  with  persons  of  simplicity  and  innocence, 
however  knowing  he  may  be  in  the  ways  of  men,  will  not 
vaunt  himself  thereof,  but  will  rather  hide  his  superiority 
to  them,  that  he  may  not  be  painful  unto  them.  My 
good  friend,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  officer,  "thee 
and  I  are  to  part  by  and  by,  and  peradventure  we  may 
never  meet  again;  but  be  advised  by  a  plain  man:  Modes 
and  apparel  are  but  trifles  to  the  real  man,  therefore  do 
not  think  such  a  man  as  thyself  terrible  for  thy  garb, 
nor  such  a  one  as  me  contemptible  for  mine.  When  two 
such  as  thee  and  I  meet,  with  affections  as  we  ought  to 
have  toward  each  other,  thou  shouldst  rejoice  to  see  my 
peaceable  demeanor,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  see  thy 
strength  and  ability  to  protect  me  in  it." 


THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 


FRANCIS  BACON 

STUDIES;    TRUTH;    TRAVEL;    RICHES;    GREAT 
PLACE;  FRIENDSHIP 


Francis  Bacon  (1561-1626)  was  one  of  the  great  figures 
of  the  Elizabethan  age.  His  father  was  Lord  Keeper  of 
the  Great  Seal  under  Queen  Elizabeth.  Francis  Bacon 
grew  up  in  the  court;  he  was  educated  at  Cambridge 
University,  and  afterward  studied  law.  He  became  a 
member  of  Parliament,  where  he  was  noted  for  his  ability 
to  say  much  in  few  words.  Ben  Jonson  says  of  him: 
"There  happened  in  my  time  one  noble  speaker  who  was 
full  of  gravity  in  his  speaking.  No  man  ever  spake  more 
neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less 
emptiness,  less  idleness  in  what  he  uttered.  His  hearers 
could  not  cough  or  look  aside  from  him  without  loss.  The 
fear  of  every  man  that  heard  him  was  lest  he  should  make 
an  end."  Under  James  I  Bacon  was  made  Lord  High 
Chancellor  of  England,  the  highest  judicial  position  in 
the  land.  He  was  accused  of  receiving  bribes,  tried,  and 
removed  from  office.  He  admitted  receiving  money  from 
suitors,  but  declared  that  he  had  not  allowed  this  to  influ- 
ence his  decisions.  The  remainder  of  his  life  he  spent  in 
retirement,  devoting  himself  to  study  and  writing.  Most 
of  his  works  are  written  in  Latin  and  deal  with  philosophy 
and  science.  His  fame  as  an  English  writer  rests  upon  his 
essays.  They  are  marked  by  clearness  and  conciseness  of 
style,  depth  of  thought,  and  occasional  beauty  of  imagery. 
They  are  full  of  quotable  sentences.  To  use  his  own 
words,  some  books  "are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swal- 
lowed, and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested."  His 
essays  are  among  the  books  to  be  chewed  and  digested. 


FRANCIS  BACON 

OF  STUDIES 

(Thifl  and  the  five  following  essays  are  from  Essays,  or  Counsels, 
Civil  and  Moral.) 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability. 
Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring; 
for  ornament  is  in  discourse;  and  for  ability  is  in  the 
judgment  and  disposition  of  business.  For  expert  men 
can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by 
one;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and  mar- 
shalling of  affairs,  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned. 
To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is  sloth,  to  use  them 
too  much  for  ornament  is  affectation,  to  make  judgment 
only  by  their  rules  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar.  They  per- 
fect nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience.  For  natural 
abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  pruning  by 
study;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions 
too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experi- 
ence. Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire 
them,  and  wise  men  use  them;  for  they  teach  not  their 
own  use,  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them  and  above 
them,  won  by  observation. 

Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and 
take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to 
weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others 
to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested; 
that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts;  others  to 
be  read,  but  not  curiously;  and  some  few  to  be  read 
wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books 
also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them 
by  others;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important 

259 


260  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

arguments  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled 
books  are  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things. 
Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and 
writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore  if  a  man  write  lit- 
tle, he  had  need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he  confer  little, 
he  had  need  have  a  present  wit;  and  if  he  read  little, 
he  had  need  have  much  cunning  to  seem  to  know  that 
he  doth  not. 

Histories  make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathemat- 
ics subtile,  natural  philosophy  deep,  moral  grave,  logic 
and  rhetoric  able  to  contend.  "  Abeunt  studia  in  mores."  * 
Nay,  there  is  no  stond  f  or  impediment  in  the  wit  but  may 
be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies,  like  as  diseases  of  the  body 
may  have  appropriate  exercises.  Bowling  is  good  for 
the  stone  and  reins,  shooting  for  the  lungs  and  breast, 
gentle  walking  for  the  stomach,  riding  for  the  head,  and 
the  like.  So  if  a  man's  wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study 
the  mathematics;  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be 
called  away  never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again.  If  his 
wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him 
study  the  schoolmen,  for  they  are  a/mini  sectores.lf.  If  he 
be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and  to  call  up  one  thing 
to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  him  study  the  lawyers' 
cases.  So  every  defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special 
receipt. 

OF  TRUTH 

"What  is  truth?"  said  jesting  Pilate ;§  and  would  not 
stay  for  an  answer.  Certainly  there  be  that  delight  in 
giddiness;  and  count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief;  affect- 
ing free  will  in  thinking,  as  well  as  in  acting.  And 

*  Abeunt,  etc.,  studies  pass  over  into  habits. 

t  Stond,  an  obsolete  form  of  stand,  here  used  to  mean  a  halt. 

|  Cymini  sectores,  splitters  of  hairs. 

§  Pilate.     See  New  Testament,  John,  xviii,  38. 


FRANCIS  BACON  261 

though  the  sects  of  philosophers  of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet 
there  remain  certain  discoursing  wits  which  are  of  the 
same  veins,  though  there  be  not  so  much  blood  in  them 
as  was  in  those  of  the  ancients.  But  it  is  not  only  the 
difficulty  and  labor  which  men  take  in  finding  out  of 
truth;  nor  again,  that  when  it  is  found  it  imposeth  upon 
men's  thoughts,  that  doth  bring  lies  in  favor;  but  a 
natural  though  corrupt  love  of  the  lie  itself.  One  of  the 
later  school  of  the  Grecians  examineth  the  matter,  and 
is  at  a  stand  to  think  what  should  be  in  it  that  men  should 
love  lies,  where  neither  they  make  for  pleasure,  as  with 
poets;  nor  for  advantage,  as  with  the  merchant;  but  for 
the  lie's  sake.  But  I  cannot  tell;  this  same  truth  is  a 
naked  and  open  daylight,  that  doth  not  show  the  masks, 
and  mummeries,  and  triumphs  of  the  world  half  so  stately 
and  daintily  as  candle-lights.  Truth  may  perhaps  come 
to  the  price  of  a  pearl,  that  showeth  best  by  day;  but  it 
will  not  rise  to  the  price  of  a  diamond  or  carbuncle,  that 
showeth  best  in  varied  lights.  A  mixture  of  a  lie  doth 
ever  add  pleasure.  Doth  any  man  doubt,  that  if  there 
were  taken  out  of  men's  minds  vain  opinions,  flattering 
hopes,  false  valuations,  imaginations  as  one  would,  and 
the  like,  but  it  would  leave  the  minds  of  a  number  of 
men  poor  shrunken  things,  full  of  melancholy  and  indis- 
position, and  unpleasing  to  themselves?  One  of  the 
Fathers,*  in  great  severity,  called  poesy  vinum  dcemonum,^ 
because  it  filleth  the  imagination,  and  yet  it  is  but  with 
the  shadow  of  a  lie.  But  it  is  not  the  lie  that  passeth 
through  the  mind,  but  the  lie  that  sinketh  in,  and  settleth 
in  it,  that  doth  the  hurt;  such  as  we  spake  of  before. 

But  howsoever  these  things  are  thus  in  men's  depraved 
judgments  and  affections,  yet  truth,  which  only  doth 
judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the  inquiry  of  truth,  which  is 

*  Fathers,  St.  Augustine,  in  his  Confessions. 
t  Vinum  darmonum,  the  wine  of  demons. 


262  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

the  love-making  or  wooing  of  it;  the  knowledge  of  truth, 
which  is  the  presence  of  it;  and  the  belief  of  truth,  which 
is  the  enjoying  of  it — is  the  sovereign  good  of  human  na- 
ture. The  first  creature  of  God,  in  the  works  of  the  days, 
was  the  light  of  the  sense;  the  last  was  the  light  of  reason; 
and  his  Sabbath  work  ever  since  is  the  illumination  of  his 
Spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon  the  face  of  the  mat- 
ter, or  chaos;  then  he  breathed  light  into  the  face  of  man; 
and  still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into  the  face  of 
his  chosen.  The  poet  *  that  beautified  the  sect  that  was 
otherwise  inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  well: 
"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the  shore,  and  to  see  ships 
tossed  upon  the  sea;  a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window 
of  a  castle,  and  to  see  a  battle,  and  the  adventures  thereof 
below ;  but  no  pleasure  is  comparable  to  the  standing  upon 
the  vantage  ground  of  truth"  (a  hill  not  to  be  com- 
manded, and  where  the  air  is  always  clear  and  serene) 
"and  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings,  and  mists,  and 
tempests,  in  the  vale  below";  so  always,  that  this  pros- 
pect be  with  pity,  and  not  with  swelling  or  pride.  Cer- 
tainly, it  is  heaven  upon  earth  to  have  a  man's  mind 
move  in  charity,  rest  in  providence,  and  turn  upon  the 
poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical  truth  to 
the  truth  of  civil  business,  it  will  be  acknowledged,  even 
by  those  that  practise  it  not,  that  clear  and  round  deal- 
ing is  the  honor  of  man's  nature;  and  that  mixture  of 
falsehood  is  like  alloy  in  coin  of  gold  and  silver;  which 
may  make  the  metal  work  the  better,  but  it  embaseth 
it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked  courses  are  the  goings 
of  the  serpent,  which  goeth  basely  upon  the  belly,  and 
not  upon  the  feet.  There  is  no  vice  that  doth  so  cover  a 
man  with  shame  as  to  be  found  false  and  perfidious. 

*The  poet,  Lucretius,  a  Roman  poet,  of  the  "sect"  of  the  Epi- 
cureans. 


FRANCIS  BACON  263 

And  therefore  Montaigne  saith  prettily,  when  he  in- 
quired the  reason  why  the  word  of  the  lie  should  be  such 
a  disgrace,  and  such  an  odious  charge;  saith  he:  "If  it 
be  well  weighed,  to  say  that  a  man  lieth  is  as  much  as 
to  say  that  he  is  brave  toward  God  and  a  coward  toward 
men."  For  a  lie  faces  God,  and  shrinks  from  man. 
Surely  the  wickedness  of  falsehood,  and  breach  of  faith, 
cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  expressed  as  in  that  it  shall 
be  the  last  peal  to  call  the  judgments  of  God  upon  the 
generations  of  men;  it  being  foretold  that  when  Christ 
cometh  "He  shall  not  find  faith  upon  the  earth."  * 

OF  TRAVEL 

Travel,  in  the  younger  sort,  is  a  part  of  education;  in 
the  elder,  a  part  of  experience.  He  that  travelleth  into 
a  country  before  he  hath  some  entrance  into  the  language, 
goeth  to  school,  and  not  to  travel.  That  young  men 
travel  under  some  tutor  or  grave  servant,  I  allow  well; 
so  that  he  be  such  a  one  that  hath  the  language  and  hath 
been  in  the  country  before,  whereby  he  may  be  able  to 
tell  them  what  things  are  worthy  to  be  seen  in  the  coun- 
try where  they  go,  what  acquaintances  they  are  to  seek, 
what  exercises  or  discipline  the  place  yieldeth.  For  else 
young  men  shall  go  hooded,  and  look  abroad  little. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that  in  sea  voyages,  where  there  is 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  sky  and  sea,  men  should  make 
diaries;  but  in  land  travel,  wherein  so  much  is  to  be  ob- 
served, for  the  most  part  they  omit  it;  as  if  chance  were 
fitter  to  be  registered  than  observation.  Let  diaries 
therefore  be  brought  in  use. 

The  things  to  be  seen  and  observed  are:  the  courts  of 
princes,   specially  when  they  give  audience  to  ambas- 
sadors; the  courts  of  justice,  while  they  sit  and  hear 
*  Quoted  from  Luke,  xviii,  8. 


264  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

causes;  and  so  of  consistories  ecclesiastic;  the  churches 
and  monasteries,  with  the  monuments  which  are  therein 
extant;  the  walls  and  fortifications  of  cities  and  towns, 
and  so  the  havens  and  harbors;  antiquities  and  ruins; 
libraries,  colleges,  disputations,  and  lectures,  where  any 
are;  shipping  and  navies;  houses  and  gardens  of  state  and 
pleasure  near  great  cities,  armories,  arsenals,  magazines, 
exchanges,  burses,  warehouses;  exercises  of  horsemanship, 
fencing,  training  of  soldiers,  and  the  like;  comedies,  such 
whereunto  the  better  sort  of  persons  do  resort;  treasuries 
of  jewels  and  robes,  cabinets  and  rarities;  and,  to  con- 
clude, whatsoever  is  memorable  in  the  places  where  they 
go:  after  all  which  the  tutors  or  servants  ought  to  make 
diligent  inquiry.  As  for  triumphs,  masques,  feasts,  wed- 
dings, funerals,  capital  executions,  and  such  shows,  men 
need  not  to  be  put  in  mind  of  them;  yet  are  they  not  to 
be  neglected. 

If  you  will  have  a  young  man  to  put  his  travel  into  a 
little  room,  and  in  short  time  to  gather  much,  this  you 
must  do:  first,  as  was  said,  he  must  have  some  entrance 
into  the  language  before  he  goeth.  Then  he  must  have 
such  a  servant  or  tutor  as  knoweth  the  country,  as  was 
likewise  said.  Let  him  carry  with  him  also  some  card 
or  book  describing  the  country  where  he  travelleth,  which 
will  be  a  good  key  to  his  inquiry.  Let  him  keep  also  a 
diary.  Let  him  not  stay  long  in  one  city  or  town;  more 
or  less  as  the  place  deserve th,  but  not  long.  Nay,  when 
he  stayeth  in  one  city  or  town,  let  him  change  his  lodging 
from  one  end  and  part  of  the  town  to  another,  which  is  a 
great  adamant  of  acquaintance.  Let  him  sequester  him- 
self from  the  company  of  his  countrymen,  and  diet  in 
such  places  where  there  is  good  company  of  the  nation 
where  he  travelleth.  Let  him,  upon  his  removes  from 
one  place  to  another,  procure  recommendation  to  some 
person  of  quality  residing  in  the  place  whither  he  removeth, 


FRANCIS  BACON  265 

that  he  may  use  his  favor  in  those  things  he  desireth  to 
see  or  know.  Thus  he  may  abridge  his  travel  with  much 
profit. 

As  for  the  acquaintance  which  is  to  be  sought  in  travel, 
that  which  is  most  of  all  profitable  is  acquaintance  with 
the  secretaries  and  employed  men  of  ambassadors;  for  so 
in  travelling  in  one  country  he  shall  suck  the  experience 
of  many.  Let  him  also  see  and  visit  eminent  persons  in 
all  kinds  which  are  of  great  name  abroad,  that  he  may 
be  able  to  tell  how  the  life  agreeth  with  the  fame.  For 
quarrels,  they  are  with  care  and  discretion  to  be  avoided. 
They  are  commonly  for  mistresses,  healths,  place,  and 
words.  And  let  a  man  beware  how  he  keepeth  company 
with  choleric  and  quarrelsome  persons,  for  they  will  en- 
gage him  into  their  own  quarrels.  When  a  traveller  re- 
turneth  home,  let  him  not  leave  the  countries  where  he 
hath  travelled  altogether  behind  him,  but  maintain  a 
correspondence  by  letters  with  those  of  his  acquaintance 
which  are  of  most  worth.  And  let  his  travel  appear 
rather  in  his  discourse  than  in  his  apparel  or  gesture;  and 
in  his  discourse  let  him  be  rather  advised  in  his  answers 
than  forward  to  tell  stories.  And  let  it  appear  that  he 
doth  not  change  his  country  manners  for  those  of  foreign 
parts,  but  only  prick  in  some  flowers  of  that  he  hath 
learned  abroad,  into  the  customs  of  his  own  country. 

OF  RICHES 

I  cannot  call  riches  better  than  the  baggage  of  virtue. 
The  Roman  word  is  better,  "impedimenta,"  for  as  the 
baggage  is  to  an  army  so  is  riches  to  virtue.  It  cannot 
be  spared,  nor  left  behind,  but  it  hindereth  the  march; 
yea,  and  the  care  of  it  sometimes  loseth  or  disturbeth  the 

victory. 

Of  great  riches  there  is  no  real  use,  except  it  be  in  the 


266  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

distribution;  the  rest  is  but  conceit.  So  saith  Solomon, 
"Where  much  is,  there  are  many  to  consume  it;  and  what 
hath  the  owner  but  the  sight  of  it  with  his  eyes  ?  "  *  The 
personal  fruition  in  any  man  cannot  reach  to  feel  great 
riches:  there  is  a  custody  of  them,  or  a  power  of  dole  and 
donative  of  them,  or  a  fame  of  them,  but  no  solid  use  to 
the  owner.  Do  you  not  see  what  feigned  prices  are  set 
upon  little  stones  and  rarities?  And  what  works  of  os- 
tentation are  undertaken,  because  there  might  seem  to 
be  some  use  of  great  riches?  But  then,  you  will  say, 
they  may  be  of  use  to  buy  men  out  of  dangers  or  troubles. 
As  Solomon  saith:  ''Riches  are  as  a  stronghold  in  the 
imagination  of  the  rich  rnan."f  But  this  is  excellently  ex- 
pressed, that  it  is  in  imagination,  and  not  always  in  fact. 
For  certainly  great  riches  have  sold  more  men  than  they 
have  bought  out. 

Seek  not  proud  riches,  but  such  as  thou  mayest  get 
justly,  use  soberly,  distribute  cheerfully,  and  leave  con- 
tentedly. Yet  have  no  abstract  nor  friarly  contempt  of 
them;  but  distinguish,  as  Cicero  saith  well  of  Rabirius 
Posthumas,  "in  studio  rei  amplificandse  apparebat,  non 
avaritise  prsedam,  sed  instrumentum  bonitati  quseri."t 
Hearken  also  to  Solomon,  and  beware  of  hasty  gathering 
of  riches:  "Qui  festinat  ad  divitas,  non  erit  insons."  § 
The  poets  feign  that  when  Plutus,  which  is  riches,  is  sent 
from  Jupiter,  he  limps,  and  goes  slowly,  but  when  he  is 
sent  from  Pluto,  he  runs,  and  is  swift  of  foot;  meaning, 
that  riches  gotten  by  good  means  and  just  labor  pace 
slowly,  but  when  they  come  by  the  death  of  others,  as 
by  the  course  of  inheritance,  testaments,  and  the  like, 

*  From  Ecclesiastes,  v,  11.  f  From  Proverbs,  xviii,  11. 

J  In  studio,  etc.  In  the  endeavor  to  increase  his  estate,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  sought,  not  the  plunder  of  avarice,  but  the  means  of 
doing  good. 

§  Qui  festinat,  etc.  He  that  makes  waste  to  be  rich  shall  not  be 
innocent.  Proverbs,  xxviii,  22. 


FRANCIS  BACON  267 

they  come  tumbling  upon  a  man.  But  it  might  be  ap- 
plied likewise  to  Pluto,  taking  him  for  the  devil.  For 
when  riches  come  from  the  devil,  as  by  fraud,  and  op- 
pression, and  unjust  means,  they  come  upon  speed. 

The  ways  to  enrich  are  many,  and  most  of  them  foul. 
Parsimony  is  one  of  the  best,  and  yet  is  not  innocent,  for 
it  withholdeth  men  from  works  of  liberality  and  charity. 
The  improvement  of  the  ground  is  the  most  natural  ob- 
taining of  riches,  for  it  is  our  great  mother's  blessing,  the 
earth's;  but  it  is  slow.  And  yet,  where  men  of  great 
wealth  do  stoop  to  husbandry,  it  multiplieth  riches  exceed- 
ingly. I  knew  a  nobleman  in  England  that  had  the 
greatest  audits  of  any  man  in  my  time:  a  great  grazier, 
a  great  sheep  master,  a  great  timber  man,  a  great  collier, 
a  great  corn  master,  a  great  lead  man,  and  so  of  iron, 
and  a  number  of  the  like  points  of  husbandry;  so  as  the 
earth  seemed  a  sea  to  him,  in  respect  of  the  perpetual 
importation.  It  was  truly  observed  by  one,  that  him- 
self came  very  hardly  to  a  little  riches,  and  very  easily  to 
great  riches.  For  when  a  man's  stock  is  come  to  that, 
that  he  can  expect  the  prime  of  markets,  and  overcome 
those  bargains  which,  for  their  greatness,  are  few  men's 
money,  and  be  partner  in  the  industries  of  younger  men, 
he  cannot  but  increase  mainly. 

The  gains  of  ordinary  trades  and  vocations  are  honest, 
and  furthered  by  two  things  chiefly,  by  diligence,  and  by 
a  good  name  for  good  and  fair  dealing.  But  the  gains 
of  bargains  are  of  a  more  doubtful  nature,  when  men 
shall  wait  upon  others'  necessity;  broke*  by  servants  and 
instruments  to  draw  them  on;  put  off  others  cunningly 
that  would  'be  better  chapmenf;  and  the  like  practices, 
which  are  crafty  and  naught.  As  for  the  chopping  of 
bargains,— when  a  man  buys,  not  to  hold,  but  to  sell  over 
again, — that  commonly  grindeth  double,  both  upon  the 

*  Broke,  negotiate.  t  Chapmen,  buyers. 


268  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

seller  and  upon  the  buyer.  Sharings  do  greatly  enrich, 
if  the  hands  be  well  chosen  that  are  trusted.  Usury  is 
the  certainest  means  of  gain,  though  one  of  the  worst, 
as  that  whereby  a  man  doth  eat  his  bread  "in  sudore 
vultus  alieni,*  and  besides,  doth  plough  upon  Sundays. 
But  yet,  certain  though  it  be,  it  hath  flaws;  for  that  the 
scriveners  and  brokers  do  value  unsound  men,  to  serve 
their  own  turn. 

The  fortune  in  being  the  first  in  an  invention,  or  in  a 
privilege,  doth  cause  sometimes  a  wonderful  overgrowth 
in  riches,  as  it  was  with  the  first  sugarman  in  the  Ca- 
naries. Therefore,  if  a  man  can  play  the  true  logician, 
to  have  as  well  judgment  as  invention,  he  may  do  great 
matters,  especially  if  the  times  be  fit.  He  that  resteth 
upon  gains  certain,  shall  hardly  grow  to  great  riches; 
and  he  that  puts  all  upon  adventures,  doth  oftentimes 
break,  and  come  to  poverty;  it  is  good  therefore  to  guard 
adventures  with  certainties  that  may  uphold  losses. 
Monopolies,  and  coemption  of  wares  for  resale,  where 
they  are  not  restrained,  are  great  means  to  enrich; 
especially  if  the  party  have  intelligence  what  things  are 
like  to  come  into  request,  and  to  store  himself  before- 
hand. Riches  gotten  by  service,  though  it  be  of  the 
best  rise,  yet  when  they  are  gotten  by  flattery,  feeding 
humors,  and  other  servile  conditions,  they  may  be  placed 
amongst  the  worst.  As  for  fishing  for  testaments  and 
executorships  (as  Tacitus  saith  of  Seneca,  "Testamenta 
et  orbos  tanquam  indagine  capi"f),  it  is  yet  worse;  by 
how  much  men  submit  themselves  to  meaner  persons 
than  in  service. 

Believe  not  much  them  that  seem  to  despise  riches,  for 
they  despise  them  that  despair  of  them;  and  none  worse 

*  In  sudore,  in  the  sweat  of  another's  brow. 
t  Testamenta,  etc.    Wills  and  trusteeships  were  pulled  in  by  him 
as  if  with  a  net. 


FRANCIS  BACON  269 

when  they  come  to  them.  Be  not  penny-wise;  riches 
have  wings,  and  sometimes  they  fly  away  of  themselves, 
sometimes  they  must  be  set  flying  to  bring  in  more. 

Men  leave  their  riches  either  to  then:  kindred,  or  to 
the  public;  and  moderate  portions  prosper  best  in  both. 
A  great  estate  left  to  an  heir  is  as  a  lure  to  all  the  birds 
of  prey  round  about  to  seize  on  him,  if  he  be  not  the 
better  stablished  in  years  and  judgment.  Likewise  glori- 
ous gifts  and  foundations  are  like  sacrifices  without  salt; 
and  but  the  painted  sepulchres  of  alms,  which  soon  will 
putrefy  and  corrupt  inwardly.  Therefore  measure  not 
thine  advancements  by  quantity,  but  frame  them  by 
measure.  And  defer  not  charities  till  death;  for  certainly, 
if  a  man  weigh  it  rightly,  he  that  doth  so,  is  rather  liberal 
of  another  man's  than  of  his  own. 

OF  GREAT  PLACE 

Men  in  great  place  are  thrice  servants:  servants  of  the 
sovereign  or  state,  servants  of  fame,  and  servants  of  busi- 
ness; so  as  they  have  no  freedom,  neither  in  their  per- 
sons, nor  in  their  actions,  nor  in  their  times.  It  is  a 
strange  desire  to  seek  power  and  to  lose  liberty;  or  to 
seek  power  over  others  and  to  lose  power  over  a  man's 
self.  The  rising  unto  place  is  laborious,  and  by  pains 
men  come  to  greater  pains;  and  it  is  sometimes  base,  and 
by  indignities  men  come  to  dignities.  The  standing  is 
slippery,  and  the  regress  is  either  a  downfall  or  at  least 
an  eclipse,  which  is  a  melancholy  thing.  "Cum  non  sis 
qui  fueris,  non  esse  cur  velis  vivere."  *  Nay,  retire  men 
cannot  when  they  would,  neither  will  they  when  it  were 
reason,  but  are  impatient  of  privateness,  even  in  age  and 
sickness,  which  require  the  shadow;  like  old  townsmen 

*  Cum  non,  etc.  Since  you  are  not  what  you  were,  there  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  wish  to  live. 


270  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

that  will  be  still  sitting  at  their  street  door,  though  thereby 
they  offer  age  to  scorn.  Certainly,  great  persons  had 
need  to  borrow  other  men's  opinions  to  think  themselves 
happy,  for  if  they  judge  by  their  own  feeling  they  cannot 
find  it;  but  if  they  think  with  themselves  what  other 
men  think  of  them,  and  that  other  men  would  fain  be  as 
they  are,  then  they  are  happy  as  it  were  by  report,  when 
perhaps  they  find  the  contrary  within.  For  they  are  the 
first  that  find  their  own  griefs,  though  they  be  the  last 
that  find  their  own  faults.  Certainly,  men  in  great  for- 
tunes are  strangers  to  themselves,  and  while  they  are  in 
the  puzzle  of  business  they  have  no  time  to  tend  their 
health  either  of  body  or  mind.  "  Illi  mors  gravis  incubat, 
qui  notus  nimis  omnibus,  ignotus  moritur  sibi."  * 

In  place  there  is  license  to  do  good  and  evil,  whereof 
the  latter  is  a  curse;  for  in  evil  the  best  condition  is  not 
to  will,  the  second  not  to  can.  But  power  to  do  good  is 
the  true  and  lawful  end  of  aspiring.  For  good  thoughts, 
though  God  accept  them,  yet  toward  men  are  little  better 
than  good  dreams,  except  they  be  put  in  act;  and  that 
cannot  be  without  power  and  place,  as  the  vantage  and 
commanding  ground.  Merit  and  good  works  is  the  end 
of  man's  motion,  and  conscience  of  the  same  is  the  ac- 
complishment of  man's  rest.  For  if  a  man  can  be  par- 
taker of  God's  theatre,  he  shall  likewise  be  partaker  of 
God's  rest.  "Et  conversus  Deus,  ut  aspiceret  opera, 
quse  fecerunt  manus  suse,  vidit  quod  omnia  essent  bona 
nimis,  "f  and  then  the  Sabbath. 

In  the  discharge  of  thy  place  set  before  thee  the  best 
examples,  for  imitation  is  a  globe  of  precepts.  And  after 

*  Illi,  etc.  Death  presses  heavily  upon  him  who,  well  known  to 
all  others,  dies  unknown  to  himself. 

t  Et  conversus,  etc.  And  God  turned  to  behold  the  works  which 
his  hands  had  wrought,  and  he  saw  that  everything  was  very  good. 
Gcnosis,  i,  31. 


FRANCIS  BACON  271 

a  time  set  before  thee  thine  own  example,  and  examine 
thyself  strictly,  whether  thou  didst  not  best  at  first. 
Neglect  not  also  the  examples  of  those  that  have  carried 
themselves  ill  in  the  same  place,  not  to  set  off  thyself  by 
taxing  their  memory,  but  to  direct  thyself  what  to  avoid. 
Reform,  therefore,  without  bravery  or  scandal  of  former 
times  and  persons;  but  yet  set  it  down  to  thyself,  as  well 
to  create  good  precedents  as  to  follow  them.  Reduce 
things  to  the  first  institution,  and  observe  wherein  and 
how  they  have  degenerated;  but  yet  ask  counsel  of  both 
times:  of  the  ancient  time  what  is  best,  and  of  the  latter 
time  what  is  fittest.  Seek  to  make  thy  course  regular, 
that  men  may  know  beforehand  what  they  may  expect; 
but  be  not  too  positive  and  peremptory,  and  express  thy- 
self well  when  thou  digressest  from  thy  rule.  Preserve 
the  right  of  thy  place,  but  stir  not  questions  of  jurisdic- 
tion; and  rather  assume  thy  right  in  silence  and  de  facto,* 
than  voice  it  with  claims  and  challenges.  Preserve  like- 
wise the  rights  of  inferior  places,  and  think  it  more  honor 
to  direct  in  chief  than  to  be  busy  in  all.  Embrace  and 
invite  helps  and  advices  touching  the  execution  of  thy 
place,  and  do  not  drive  away  such  as  bring  thee  informa- 
tion, as  meddlers,  but  accept  of  them  in  good  part. 

The  vices  of  authority  are  chiefly  four:  delays,  corrup- 
tion, roughness,  and  facility.  For  delays:  give  easy  ac- 
cess, keep  times  appointed,  go  through  with  that  which 
is  in  hand,  and  interlace  not  business  but  of  necessity. 
For  corruption:  do  not  only  bind  thine  own  hands,  or 
thy  servants'  hands,  from  taking,  but  bind  the  hands  of 
suitors  also  from  offering.  For  integrity  used  doth  the 
one;  but  integrity  professed,  and  with  a  manifest  detes- 
tation of  bribery,  doth  the  other.  And  avoid  not  only 
the  fault  but  the  suspicion.  Whosoever  is  found  variable, 
and  changeth  manifestly  without  manifest  cause,  giveth 
*  De  facto,  as  a  matter  of  course. 


272  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

suspicion  of  corruption.  Therefore  always  when  thou 
changes!  thine  opinion  or  course,  profess  it  plainly,  and 
declare  it,  together  with  the  reasons  that  move  thee  to 
change,  and  do  not  think  to  steal  it.  A  servant  or  a 
favorite,  if  he  be  inward,  and  no  other  apparent  cause  of 
esteem,  is  commonly  thought  but  a  byway  to  close  cor- 
ruption. For  roughness:  it  is  a  needless  cause  of  dis- 
content; severity  breedeth  fear,  but  roughness  breedeth 
hate.  Even  reproofs  from  authority  ought  to  be  grave, 
and  not  taunting.  As  for  facility,*  it  is  worse  than  bribery. 
For  bribes  come  but  now  and  then;  but  if  importunity  or 
idle  respects  lead  a  man,  he  shall  never  be  without.  As 
Solomon  saith:  "To  respect  persons  is  not  good;  for  such 
a  man  will  transgress  for  a  piece  of  bread."  f 

It  is  most  true  that  was  anciently  spoken,  "A  place 
showeth  the  man";  and  it  showeth  some  to  the  better 
and  some  to  the  worse.  "Omnium  consensu,  capax  im- 
perii,  nisi  imperasset,"t  saith  Tacitus  of  Galba;  but  of 
Vespasian  he  saith,  "Solus  imperantium  Vespasianus 
mutatus  in  melius."  §  Though  the  one  was  meant  of  suf- 
ficiency, the  other  of  manners  and  affection.  It  is  an 
assured  sign  of  a  worthy  and  generous  spirit,  whom 
honor  amends.  For  honor  is,  or  should  be,  the  place  of 
virtue:  and  as  in  nature  things  move  violently  to  their 
place,  and  calmly  in  their  place;  so  virtue  in  ambition  is 
violent,  in  authority  settled  and  calm. 

All  rising  to  great  place  is  by  a  winding  stair,  and,  if 
there  be  factions,  it  is  good  to  side  a  man's  self  whilst  he 
is  in  the  rising,  and  to  balance  himself  when  he  is  placed. 
Use  the  memory  of  thy  predecessor  fairly  and  tenderly; 

*  Facility,  being  too  easy  of  access. 

t  Proverbs,  xxviii,  21. 

J  Omnium,  etc.  By  the  consent  of  all  he  was  fit  to  govern,  if  he 
had  not  governed. 

§  Solus,  etc.  Of  all  the  emperors,  Vespasian  alone  changed  for 
the  better  after  he  came  to  the  throne. 


FRANCIS  BACON  273 

for  if  thou  dost  not,  it  is  a  debt  will  sure  be  paid  when 
thou  art  gone.  If  thou  have  colleagues,  respect  them, 
and  rather  call  them  when  they  look  not  for  it,  than  ex- 
clude them  when  they  have  reason  to  look  to  be  called. 
Be  not  too  sensible  or  too  remembering  of  thy  place  in 
conversation  and  private  answers  to  suitors;  but  let  it 
rather  be  said,  "When  he  sits  in  place  he  is  another  man." 


OF  FRIENDSHIP 

It  had  been  hard  for  him  that  spake  it  to  have  put 
more  truth  and  untruth  together  in  few  words  than  in 
that  speech,  "  Whosoever  is  delighted  in  solitude  is  either 
a  wild  beast  or  a  god."  For  it  is  most  true  that  a  natural 
and  secret  hatred  and  aversation  toward  society  in  any 
man  hath  somewhat  of  the  savage  beast;  but  it  ie  most 
untrue  that  it  should  have  any  character  at  all  of  the 
divine  nature,  except  it  proceed,  not  out  of  a  pleasure  in 
solitude,  but  out  of  a  love  and  desire  to  sequester  a  man's 
self  for  a  higher  conversation:  such  as  is  found  to  have 
been  falsely  and  feignedly  in  some  of  the  heathen,  as 
Epimenides*  the  Candian,  Numa  the  Roman,  Empedocles 
the  Sicilian,  and  Apollonius  of  Tyana;  and  truly  and  really 
in  divers  of  the  ancient  hermits  and  holy  fathers  of  the 
Church.  But  little  do  men  perceive  what  solitude  is, 
and  how  far  it  extendeth;  for  a  crowd  is  not  company, 
and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures,  and  talk  but  a 
tinkling  cymbal,  where  there  is  no  love.  The  Latin 
adage  meeteth  with  it  a  little,  "Magna  civitas,  magna 
solitudo"t;  because  in  a  great  town  friends  are  scattered, 
so  that  there  is  not  that  fellowship,  for  the  most  part, 

*  Epimenides  is  said  to  have  fallen  into  a  sleep  which  lasted  fifty- 
seven  years;  Numa  pretended  that  he  was  instructed  by  a  divine 
nymph;  Empedocles  declared  himself  to  be  immortal;  Apollonius 
professed  to  be  able  to  perform  miracles. 

f  Maffna*  etc.    A  great  city  is  a  great  solitude. 


274  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

which  is  in  less  neighborhoods.  But  we  may  go  further, 
and  affirm  most  truly  that  it  is  a  mere  and  miserable 
solitude  to  want  true  friends,  without  which  the  world 
is  but  a  wilderness.  And  even  in  this  sense  also  of  soli- 
tude, whosoever  in  the  frame  of  his  nature  and  affections 
is  unfit  for  friendship,  he  taketh  it  of  the  beast,  and  not 
from  humanity. 

A  principal  fruit  of  friendship  is  the  ease  and  discharge 
of  the  fulness  and  swellings  of  the  heart,  which  passions 
of  all  kinds  do  cause  and  induce.  We  know  diseases  of 
stoppings  and  suffocations  are  the  most  dangerous  in  the 
body,  and  it  is  not  much  otherwise  in  the  mind;  you  may 
take  sarza  to  open  the  liver,  steel  to  open  the  spleen,  flour 
of  sulphur  for  the  lungs,  castoreum  for  the  brain,  but  no 
receipt  openeth  the  heart  but  a  true  friend,  to  whom  you 
may  impart  griefs,  joys,  fears,  hopes,  suspicions,  counsels, 
and  whatsoever  lieth  upon  the  heart  to  oppress  it,  in  a 
kind  of  civil  shrift  or  confession. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  observe  how  high  a  rate  great 
kings  and  monarchs  do  set  upon  the  fruit  of  friendship 
whereof  we  speak;  so  great  as  they  purchase  it  many 
times  at  the  hazard  of  their  own  safety  and  greatness. 
For  princes,  in  regard  of  the  distance  of  their  fortune  from 
that  of  their  subjects  and  servants,  cannot  gather  this 
fruit  except,  to  make  themselves  capable  thereof,  they 
raise  some  persons  to  be,  as  it  were,  companions  and 
almost  equals  to  themselves,  which  many  times  sorteth  to 
inconvenience.  The  modern  languages  give  unto  such 
persons  the  name  of  favorites  or  privadoes,  as  if  it  were 
matter  of  grace  or  conversation;  but  the  Roman  name 
attaineth  the  true  use  and  cause  thereof,  naming  them 
"participes  curarum,"  *  for  it  is  that  which  tieth  the  knot. 
And  we  see  plainly  that  this  hath  been  done,  not  by  weak 
and  passionate  princes  only,  but  by  the  wisest  and  most 
*  Sharers  of  cares. 


FRANCIS  BACON  275 

politic  that  ever  reigned;  who  have  oftentimes  joined  to 
themselves  some  of  their  servants,  whom  both  themselves 
have  called  friends,  and  allowed  others  likewise  to  call 
them  in  the  same  manner,  using  the  word  which  is  re- 
ceived between  private  men. 

L.  Sylla,  when  he  commanded  Rome,  raised  Pompey, 
after  surnamed  the  Great,  to  that  height  that  Pompey 
vaunted  himself  for  Sylla's  overmatch.  For  when  he  had 
carried  the  consulship  for  a  friend  of  his  against  the  pur- 
suit of  Sylla,  and  that  Sylla  did  a  little  resent  thereat,  and 
began  to  speak  great,  Pompey  turned  upon  him  again, 
and  in  effect  bade  him  be  quiet,  "for  that  more  men 
adored  the  sun  rising  than  the  sun  setting."  With  Julius 
Caesar,  Decimus  Brutus  had  obtained  that  interest,  as  he 
set  him  down  in  his  testament  for  heir  in  remainder  after 
his  nephew.  And  this  was  the  man  that  had  power  with 
him  to  draw  him  forth  to  his  death.  For  when  Caesar 
would  have  discharged  the  senate,  in  regard  of  some  ill 
presages,  and  especially  a  dream  of  Calpurnia,  this  man 
lifted  him  gently  by  the  arm  out  of  his  chair,  telling  him 
he  hoped  he  would  not  dismiss  the  senate  till  his  wife  had 
dreamed  a  better  dream.  And  it  seemeth  his  favor  was 
so  great  as  Antonius,  in  a  letter  which  is  recited  verbatim 
in  one  of  Cicero's  Philippics,  calleth  him  "venefica," 
witch,  as  if  he  had  enchanted  Caesar.  Augustus  raised 
Agrippa,  though  of  mean  birth,  to  that  height  as,  when  he 
consulted  with  Maecenas  about  the  marriage  of  his  daugh- 
ter Julia,  Maecenas  took  the  liberty  to  tell  him,  "That  he 
must  either  marry  his  daughter  to  Agrippa  or  take  away 
his  life;  there  was  no  third  way,  he  had  made  him  so 
great."  With  Tiberius  Caesar,  Sejanus  had  ascended  to 
that  height  as  they  two  were  termed  and  reckoned  as  a 
pair  of  friends.  Tiberius  in  a  letter  to  him  saith:  "Haec 
pro  amicitia  nostra  non  occultavi"*;  and  the  whole  senate 

*  Hcec,  etc.    These  things,  by  reason  of  our  friendship,  I  have  not 
concealed  from  you. 


276  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

dedicated  an  altar  to  friendship,  as  to  a  goddess,  in  re- 
spect of  the  great  dearness  of  friendship  between  them 
two.  The  like  or  more  was  between  Septimius  Severus 
and  Plautianus.  For  he  forced  his  eldest  son  to  marry 
the  daughter  of  Plautianus,  and  would  often  maintain 
Plautianus  in  doing  affronts  to  his  son;  and  did  write 
also  in  a  letter  to  the  senate  by  these  words:  "I  love  the 
man  so  well  as  I  wish  he  may  overlive  me."  Now,  if 
these  princes  had  been  as  a  Trajan,  or  a  Marcus  Aurelius, 
a  man  might  have  thought  that  this  had  proceeded  of  an 
abundant  goodness  of  nature;  but  being  men  so  wise,  of 
such  strength  and  severity  of  mind,  and  so  extreme  lovers 
of  themselves,  as  all  these  were,  it  proveth  most  plainly 
that  they  found  their  own  felicity,  though  as  great  as 
ever  happened  to  mortal  men,  but  as  a  half-piece,  except 
they  might  have  a  friend  to  make  it  entire.  And  yet, 
which  is  more,  they  were  princes  which  had  wives,  sons, 
nephews;  and  yet  all  these  could  not  supply  the  comfort 
of  friendship. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  what  Comineus  observeth  of 
his  first  master,  Duke  Charles  the  Hardy;  namely,  that 
he  would  communicate  his  secrets  with  none,  and  least 
of  all  those  secrets  which  troubled  him  most.  Whereupon 
he  goeth  on,  and  saith  that  toward  his  latter  time  "that 
closeness  did  impair,  and  a  little  perish  his  understanding." 
Surely  Comineus  might  have  made  the  same  judgment 
also,  if  it  had  pleased  him,  of  his  second  master,  Louis 
XI,  whose  closeness  was  indeed  his  tormentor.  The 
parable  of  Pythagoras  is  dark  but  true:  "Cor  ne  edito," 
eat  not  the  heart.  Certainly,  if  a  man  would  give  it  a 
hard  phrase,  those  that  want  friends  to  open  themselves 
unto  are  cannibals  of  their  own  hearts.  But  one  thing  is 
most  admirable  (wherewith  I  will  conclude  this  first- 
fruit  of  friendship),  which  is,  that  this  communicating  of 
a  man's  self  to  his  friend  works  two  contrary  effects:  for 


FRANCIS  BACON  277 

it  redouble th  joys,  and  cutteth  griefs  in  halves.  For  there 
is  no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys  to  his  friend,  but  he 
joyeth  the  more;  and  no  man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to 
his  friend,  but  he  grieveth  the  less.  So  that  it  is,  in 
truth,  of  operation  upon  a  man's  mind,  of  like  virtue  as 
the  alchemists  used  to  attribute  to  their  stone  for  man's 
body,  that  it  worketh  all  contrary  effects,  but  still  to  the 
good  and  benefit  of  nature.  But  yet,  without  praying 
in  aid  of  alchemists,  there  is  a  manifest  image  of  this  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  For  in  bodies,  union 
strengthened  and  cherisheth  any  natural  action,  and,  on 
the  other  side,  weakeneth  and  dulleth  any  violent  im- 
pression; and  even  so  is  it  of  minds. 

The  second  fruit  of  friendship  is  healthful  and  sovereign 
for  the  understanding,  as  the  first  is  for  the  affections. 
For  friendship  maketh  indeed  a  fair  day  in  the  affections 
from  storm  and  tempests;  but  it  maketh  daylight  in  the 
understanding  out  of  darkness  and  confusion  of  thoughts. 
Neither  is  this  to  be  understood  only  of  faithful  counsel, 
which  a  man  receiveth  from  his  friend;  but  before  you 
come  to  that,  certain  it  is,  that  whosoever  hath  his  mind 
fraught  with  many  thoughts,  his  wits  and  understanding 
do  clarify  and  break  up  in  the  communicating  and  dis- 
coursing with  another:  he  tosseth  his  thoughts  more 
easily,  he  marshalleth  them  more  orderly,  he  seeth  how 
they  look  when  they  are  turned  into  words;  finally,  he 
waxeth  wiser  than  himself,  and  that  more  by  an  hour's 
discourse  than  by  a  day's  meditation.  It  was  well  said 
by  Themistocles  to  the  King  of  Persia,  "That  speech  was 
like  cloth  of  Arras,  opened  and  put  abroad,  whereby  the 
imagery  doth  appear  in  figure;  whereas  in  thoughts  they 
lie  but  as  in  packs."  Neither  is  this  second  fruit  of  friend- 
ship, in  opening  the  understanding,  restrained  only  to 
such  friends  as  are  able  to  give  a  man  counsel;  they  in- 
deed are  best,  but  even  without  that,  a  man  learneth  of 


278  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

himself,  and  bringeth  his  own  thoughts  to  light,  and 
whetteth  his  wits  as  against  a  stone,  which  itself  cuts  not. 
In  a  word,  a  man  were  better  relate  himself  to  a  statue 
or  picture,  than  to  suffer  his  thoughts  to  pass  in  smother. 
Add  now,  to  make  this  second  fruit  of  friendship  com- 
plete, that  other  point  which  lieth  more  open,  and  falleth 
within  vulgar  observation:  which  is  faithful  counsel  from 
a  friend.  Heraclitus  saith  well  on  one  of  his  enigmas, 
"Dry  light  is  ever  the  best."  And  certain  it  is,  that  the 
light  that  a  man  receiveth  by  counsel  from  another  is 
drier  and  purer  than  that  which  cometh  from  his  own 
understanding  and  judgment,  which  is  ever  infused  and 
drenched  in  his  affections  and  customs.  So  as  there  is  as 
much  difference  between  the  counsel  that  a  friend  giveth, 
and  that  a  man  giveth  himself,  as  there  is  between  the 
counsel  of  a  friend  and  of  a  flatterer.  For  there  is  no 
such  flatterer  as  is  a  man's  sen";  and  there  is  no  such 
remedy  against  flattery  of  a  man's  self  as  the  liberty  of  a 
friend.  Counsel  is  of  two  sorts:  the  one  concerning  man- 
ners, the  other  concerning  business.  For  the  first,  the 
best  preservative  to  keep  the  mind  in  health  is  the  faith- 
ful admonition  of  a  friend.  The  calling  of  a  man's  self 
to  a  strict  account  is  a  medicine  sometimes  too  piercing 
and  corrosive.  Reading  good  books  of  morality  is  a 
little  flat  and  dead.  Observing  our  faults  in  others  is 
sometimes  unproper  for  our  case.  But  the  best  receipt 
(best,  I  say,  to  work,  and  best  to  take)  is  the  admonition 
of  a  friend.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  behold  what  gross 
errors  and  extreme  absurdities  many,  especially  of  the 
greater  sort,  do  commit  for  want  of  a  friend  to  tell  them 
of  them;  to  the  great  damage  both  of  their  fame  and  for- 
tune. For,  as  St.  James  saith,  they  are  as  men  "that 
look  sometimes  into  a  glass,  and  presently  forget  their 
own  shape  and  favor."  *  As  for  business,  a  man  may 
*  James,  i,  23 


FRANCIS  BACON  279 

think  if  he  will  that  two  eyes  see  no  more  than  one;  or 
that  a  gamester  seeth  always  more  than  a  looker-on;  or 
that  a  man  in  anger  is  as  wise  as  he  that  hath  said  over 
the  four-and-twenty  letters;  or  that  a  musket  may  be 
shot  off  as  well  upon  the  arm  as  upon  a  rest;  and  such 
other  fond  and  high  imaginations,  to  think  himself  all  in 
all.  But  when  all  is  done,  the  help  of  good  counsel  is  that 
which  setteth  business  straight.  And  if  any  man  think 
that  he  will  take  counsel,  but  it  shall  be  by  pieces;  asking 
counsel  in  one  business  of  one  man,  and  in  another  busi- 
ness of  another  man;  it  is  well  (that  is  to  say,  better  per- 
haps than  if  he  asked  none  at  all),  but  he  runneth  two 
dangers.  One,  that  he  shall  not  be  faithfully  counselled: 
for  it  is  a  rare  thing,  except  it  be  from  a  perfect  and  entire 
friend,  to  have  counsel  given,  but  such  as  shall  be  bowed 
and  crooked  to  some  ends  which  he  hath  that  giveth  it. 
The  other,  that  he  shall  have  counsel  given,  hurtful  and 
unsafe,  though  with  good  meaning,  and  mixed  partly  of 
mischief  and  partly  of  remedy.  Even  as  if  you  would 
call  a  physician  that  is  thought  good  for  the  cure  of  the 
disease  you  complain  of,  but  is  unacquainted  with  your 
body;  and  therefore  may  put  you  in  way  for  a  present 
cure,  but  overthroweth  your  health  in  some  other  kind, 
and  so  cure  the  disease  and  kill  the  patient.  But  a  friend 
that  is  wholly  acquainted  with  a  man's  estate  will  beware 
by  furthering  any  present  business  how  he  dasheth  upon 
other  inconvenience.  And,  therefore,  rest  not  upon  scat- 
tered counsels;  they  will  rather  distract  and  mislead  than 
settle  and  direct. 

After  these  two  noble  fruits  of  friendship  (peace  in  the 
affections,  and  support  of  the  judgment)  followeth  the 
last  fruit,  which  is  like  the  pomegranate,  full  of  many 
kernels:  I  mean  aid,  and  bearing  a  part  in  all  actions  and 
occasions.  Here  the  best  way  to  represent  to  life  the 
manifold  use  of  friendship,  is  to  cast  and  see  how  many 


280  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

things  there  are  which  a  man  cannot  do  himself;  and  then 
it  will  appear  that  it  was  a  sparing  speech  of  the  ancients 
to  say,  "That  a  friend  is  another  himself";  for  that  a 
friend  is  far  more  than  himself.  Men  have  their  time, 
and  die  many  times  in  desire  of  some  things  which  they 
principally  take  to  heart, — the  bestowing  of  a  child,  the 
finishing  of  a  work,  or  the  like.  If  a  man  have  a  true 
friend,  he  may  rest  almost  secure  that  the  care  of  those 
things  will  continue  after  him.  So  that  a  man  hath,  as 
it  were,  two  lives  in  his  desires.  A  man  hath  a  body, 
and  that  body  is  confined  to  a  place;  but  where  friend- 
ship is,  all  offices  of  life  are,  as  it  were,  granted  to  him  and 
his  deputy,  for  he  may  exercise  them  by  his  friend.  How 
many  things  are  there  which  a  man  cannot,  with  any  face 
or  comeliness  say  or  do  himself !  A  man  can  scarce 
allege  his  own  merits  with  modesty,  much  less  extol  them; 
a  man  cannot  sometimes  brook  to  supplicate  or  beg; 
and  a  number  of  the  like.  But  all  these  things  are  grace- 
ful in  a  friend's  mouth,  which  are  blushing  in  a  man's 
own.  So  again,  a  man's  person  hath  many  proper  rela- 
tions which  he  cannot  put  off.  A  man  cannot  speak  to 
his  son,  but  as  a  father;  to  his  wife  but  as  a  husband;  to 
his  enemy  but  upon  terms;  whereas  a  friend  may  speak 
as  the  case  requires,  and  not  as  it  sorteth  with  the  per- 
son. But  to  enumerate  these  things  were  endless.  I 
have  given  the  rule  where  a  man  cannot  fitly  play  his 
own  part:  if  he  have  not  a  friend,  he  may  quit  the  stage. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  BOOKS 


Thomas  Carlyle  (1795-1881)  is  noted  as  a  historian  and 
essayist.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Scotch  stone-mason  of 
Ecclefechan.  When,  at  fourteen,  he  was  ready  to  enter 
college,  he  walked  the  eighty  miles  to  Edinburgh  to 
enter  the  university  there.  Most  of  his  life  was  spent  in 
London,  and  it  was  given  entirely  to  literature,  resulting 
in  a  long  row  of  volumes.  His  first  book,  Sartor  Resartus 
(The  Tailor  Re-tailored),  was  a  curious  setting  forth  of 
his  philosophy  of  life,  written  in  such  an  unusual  style 
that  it  found  few  readers.  His  next  book,  The  French 
Revolution,  made  him  famous.  For  vivid  description, 
picturesque  characterization,  and  dramatic  narrative,  it 
stands  alone  among  historical  works.  He  also  wrote  biog- 
raphies of  Cromwell,  of  John  Sterling,  and  of  Frederick 
the  Great,  and  contributed  to  magazines  a  number  of 
critical  essays,  including  a  famous  paper  on  Burns.  He 
delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on  great  men,  which  was 
published  under  the  title  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship.  This 
book  and  his  French  Revolution  are  the  best  known  of  his 
works.  The  selection  here  given  is  from  Heroes  and  Hero- 
Worship,  being  a  part  of  the  lecture  on  "The  Hero  as 
Man  of  Letters."  It  shows  the  vigor  of  Carlyle's  style, 
the  intense  earnestness  of  the  man,  and  the  originality 
of  his  thought. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  BOOKS 

(From  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship,  Lecture  V) 

Complaint  is  often  made,  in  these  times,  of  what  we 
call  the  disorganized  condition  of  society:  how  ill  many 
arranged  forces  of  society  fulfil  their  work;  how  many 
powerful  forces  are  seen  working  in  a  wasteful,  chaotic, 
altogether  unarranged  manner.  It  is  too  just  a  com- 
plaint, as  we  all  know.  But  perhaps  if  we  look  at  this 
of  Books  and  the  Writers  of  Books,  we  shall  find  here,  as 
it  were,  the  summary  of  all  other  disorganization; — a  sort 
of  heart,  from  which,  and  to  which,  all  other  confusion 
circulates  in  the  world !  Considering  what  Book-writers 
do  in  the  world,  and  what  the  world  does  with  Book- 
writers,  I  should  say,  it  is  the  most  anomalous  thing  the 
world  at  present  has  to  show. — We  should  get  into  a  sea 
far  beyond  sounding,  did  we  attempt  to  give  account  of 
this:  but  we  must  glance  at  it  for  the  sake  of  our  sub- 
ject. 

Our  pious  Fathers,  feeling  well  what  importance  lay 
in  the  speaking  of  man  to  men,  founded  churches,  made 
endowments,  regulations;  everywhere  in  the  civilized 
world  there  is  a  Pulpit,  environed  with  all  manner  of 
complex  dignified  appurtenances  and  furtherances,  that 
therefrom  a  man  with  the  tongue  may,  to  best  advantage, 
address  his  fellow  men.  They  felt  that  this  was  the  most 
important  thing;  that  without  this  there  was  no  good 
thing.  It  is  a  right  pious  work,  that  of  theirs;  beautiful 
to  behold!  But  now  with  the  art  of  Writing,  with  the 

283 


284  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

art  of  Printing,  a  total  change  has  come  over  that  busi- 
ness. The  Writer  of  a  Book,  is  not  he  a  Preacher  preach- 
ing not  to  this  parish  or  that,  on  this  day  or  that,  but  to 
all  men  in  all  times  and  places?  Surely  it  is  of  the  last 
importance  that  he  do  his  work  right,  whoever  do  it 
wrong; — that  the  eye  report  not  falsely,  for  then  all  the 
other  members  are  astray!  Well;  how  he  may  do  his 
work,  whether  he  do  it  right  or  wrong,  or  do  it  at  all,  is 
a  point  which  no  man  in  the  world  has  taken  the  pains 
to  think  of.  To  a  certain  shopkeeper,  trying  to  get  some 
money  for  his  books,  if  lucky,  he  is  of  some  importance; 
to  no  other  man  of  any.  Whence  he  came,  whither  he 
is  bound,  by  what  ways  he  arrived,  by  what  he  might  be 
furthered  on  his  course,  no  one  asks.  He  is  an  accident 
in  society.  He  wanders  like  a  wild  Ishmaelite,  in  a 
world  of  which  he  is  as  the  spiritual  light,  either  the 
guidance  or  the  misguidance ! 

Certainly  the  art  of  Writing  is  the  most  miraculous  of 
all  things  man  has  devised.  Odin's  Runes  *  were  the  first 
form  of  the  work  of  a  Hero;  Books,  written  words,  are 
still  miraculous  Runes,  the  latest  form!  In  Books  lies 
the  soul  of  the  whole  Past  Time;  the  articulate  audible 
yoice  of  the  Past,  when  the  body  and  material  substance 
of  it  has  altogether  vanished  like  a  dream.  Mighty  fleets 
and  armies,  harbors  and  arsenals,  vast  cities,  high-domed, 
many-engined, — they  are  precious,  great:  but  what  do 
they  become?  Agamemnon,  the  many  Agamemnons, 
Pericleses,  and  their  Greece;  all  is  gone  now  to  some 
ruined  fragments,  dumb  mournful  wrecks  and  blocks: 
but  the  Books  of  Greece !  There  Greece,  to  every  thinker, 
still  very  literally  lives;  can  be  called  up  again  into  life. 
No  magic  Rune  is  stranger  than  a  Book.  All  that  Man- 
kind has  done,  thought,  gained  or  been:  it  is  lying  as  in 

*  Runes,  a  name  given  to  the  ancient  Scandinavian  alphabet, 
which  according  to  tradition  was  given  to  mankind  by  the  god  Odin. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  285 

magic  preservation  in  the  pages  of  Books.  They  are  the 
chosen  possession  of  men. 

Do  not  Books  still  accomplish  miracles,  as  Runes  were 
fabled  to  do?  They  persuade  men.  Not  the  wretched- 
est  circulating-library  novel,  which  foolish  girls  thumb 
and  con  in  remote  villages,  but  will  help  to  regulate  the 
actual  practical  weddings  and  households  of  those  fool- 
ish girls.  So  "  Celia  "  felt,  so  "  Clifford  "  acted :  the  foolish 
Theorem  of  Life,  stamped  into  those  young  brains,  comes 
out  as  a  solid  Practice  one  day.  Consider  whether  any 
Rune  in  the  wildest  imagination  of  Mythologist  ever  did 
such  wonders  as,  on  the  actual  firm  Earth,  some  Books 
have  done!  What  built  St.  Paul's  Cathedral?  Look  at 
the  heart  of  the  matter,  it  was  that  divine  Hebrew  Book, 
— the  word  partly  of  the  man  Moses,  an  outlaw  tending 
his  Midianitish  herds,  four  thousand  years  ago,  in  the 
wildernesses  of  Sinai !  It  is  the  strangest  of  things,  yet 
nothing  is  truer.  With  the  art  of  Writing,  of  which  Print- 
ing is  a  simple,  an  inevitable  and  comparatively  insignifi- 
cant corollary,  the  true  reign  of  miracles  for  mankind 
commenced.  It  related,  with  a  wondrous  new  contiguity 
and  perpetual  closeness,  the  Past  and  Distant  with  the 
Present  in  time  and  place;  all  times  and  all  places  with 
this  our  actual  Here  and  Now.  All  things  were  altered 
for  men;  all  modes  of  important  work  of  men:  teaching, 
preaching,  governing,  and  all  else. 

To  look  at  Teaching,  for  instance.  Universities  are  a 
notable,  respectable  product  of  the  modern  ages.  Their 
existence  too  is  modified,  to  the  very  basis  of  it,  by  the 
existence  of  Books.  Universities  arose  while  there  were 
yet  no  Books  procurable;  while  a  man,  for  a  single  Book, 
had  to  give  an  estate  of  land.  That,  in  those  circum- 
stances, when  a  man  had  some  knowledge  to  communi- 
cate, he  should  do  it  by  gathering  the  learners  round  him, 
face  to  face,  was  a  necessity  for  him.  If  you  wanted  to 


286  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

know  what  Abelard  knew,  you  must  go  and  listen  to 
Abelard.  Thousands,  as  many  as  thirty  thousand,  went 
to  hear  Abelard  and  that  metaphysical  theology  of  his. 
And  now  for  any  other  teacher  who  had  also  something 
of  his  own  to  teach,  there  was  a  great  convenience  opened: 
so  many  thousands  eager  to  learn  were  already  assem- 
bled yonder;  of  all  places  the  best  place  for  him  was  that. 
For  any  third  teacher  it  was  better  still;  and  grew  ever 
the  better,  the  more  teachers  there  came.  It  only  needed 
now  that  the  King  took  notice  of  this  new  phenomenon; 
combined  or  agglomerated  the  various  schools  into  one 
school;  gave  it  edifices,  privileges,  encouragements,  and 
named  it  Unwersitas,  or  School  of  all  Sciences:  the  Uni- 
versity of  Paris,  in  its  essential  characters,  was  there. 
The  model  of  all  subsequent  Universities;  which  down 
even  to  these  days,  for  six  centuries  now,  have  gone  on  to 
found  themselves.  Such,  I  conceive,  was  the  origin  of 
Universities. 

It  is  clear,  however,  that  with  this  simple  circumstance, 
facility  of  getting  Books,  the  whole  conditions  of  the  busi- 
ness from  top  to  bottom  were  changed.  Once  invent 
Printing,  you  metamorphosed  all  Universities,  or  super- 
seded them!  The  Teacher  needed  not  now  to  gather 
men  personally  round  him,  that  he  might  speak  to  them 
what  he  knew:  print  it  in  a  Book,  and  all  learners  far  and 
wide,  for  a  trifle,  had  it  each  at  his  own  fireside,  much 
more  effectually  to  learn  it !— Doubtless  there  is  still 
peculiar  virtue  in  Speech;  even  Writers  of  Books  may  still, 
in  some  circumstances,  find  it  convenient  to  speak  also, 
— witness  our  present  meeting  here !  *  There  is,  one  would 
say,  and  must  ever  remain  while  man  has  a  tongue,  a 
distinct  province  for  Speech  as  well  as  for  Writing  and 
Printing.  In  regard  to  all  things  this  must  remain;  to 
Universities  among  others.  But  the  limits  of  the  two 
*  This  was  originally  given  as  a  lecture. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  287 

have  nowhere  yet  been  pointed  out,  ascertained;  much 
less  put  in  practice;  the  University  which  would  com- 
pletely take  in  that  great  new  fact,  of  the  existence  of 
Printed  Books,  and  stand  on  a  clear  footing  for  the  Nine- 
teenth Century  as  the  Paris  one  did  for  the  Thirteenth, 
has  not  yet  come  into  existence.  If  we  think  of  it,  all 
that  a  University,  or  final  highest  School  can  do  for  us, 
is  still  but  what  the  first  School  began  doing, — teach  us 
to  read.  We  learn  to  read,  in  various  languages,  in  various 
sciences;  we  learn  the  alphabet  and  letters  of  all  manner 
of  Books.  But  the  place  where  we  are  to  get  knowledge, 
even  theoretic  knowledge,  is  the  Books  themselves!  It 
depends  on  what  we  read,  after  all  manner  of  Professors 
have  done  their  best  for  us.  The  true  University  of  these 
days  is  a  Collection  of  Books. 

But  to  the  Church  itself,  as  I  hinted  already,  all  is 
changed,  in  its  preaching,  in  its  working,  by  the  intro- 
duction of  Books.  The  Church  is  the  working  recognized 
Union  of  our  Priests  or  Prophets,  of  those  who  by  wise 
teaching  guide  the  souls  of  men.  While  there  was  no 
Writing,  even  while  there  was  no  Easy-writing  or  Print- 
ing, the  preaching  of  the  voice  was  the  natural  sole  method 
of  performing  this.  But  now  with  Books  I — He  that  can 
write  a  true  Book,  to  persuade  England,  is  not  he  the 
Bishop  and  Archbishop,  the  Primate  of  England  and  of 
All  England?  I  many  a  time  say,  the  writers  of  News- 
papers, Pamphlets,  Poems,  Books,  these  are  the  real 
working  effective  Church  of  a  modern  country.  Nay,  not 
only  our  preaching,  but  even  our  worship,  is  not  it  too 
accomplished  by  means  of  Printed  Books?  The  noble 
sentiment  which  a  gifted  soul  has  clothed  for  us  in  me- 
lodious words,  which  brings  melody  into  our  hearts, — is 
not  this  essentially,  if  we  will  understand  it,  of  the  nature 
of  worship?  There  are  many,  in  all  countries,  who,  in 
this  confused  time,  have  no  other  method  of  worship. 


288  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

He  who,  in  any  way,  shows  us  better  than  we  knew  before 
that  a  lily  of  the  fields  is  beautiful,  does  he  not  show  it 
us  as  an  effluence  of  the  Fountain  of  all  Beauty;  as  the 
handwriting,  made  visible  there,  of  the  great  Maker  of 
the  Universe?  He  has  sung  for  us,  made  us  sing  with 
him,  a  little  verse  of  a  sacred  Psalm.  Essentially  so. 
How  much  more  he  who  sings,  who  says,  or  in  any  way 
brings  home  to  our  heart  the  noble  doings,  feelings,  dar- 
ings and  endurances  of  a  brother  man!  He  has  verily 
touched  our  hearts  as  with  a  live  coal  from  the  altar.  Per- 
haps there  is  no  worship  more  authentic. 

Literature,  so  far  as  it  is  Literature,  is  an  "apocalypse 
of  Nature/'  a  revealing  of  the  "open  secret."  It  may 
well  enough  be  named,  in  Fichte's  style,  a  "continuous 
revelation"  of  the  Godlike  in  the  Terrestrial  and  Com- 
mon. The  Godlike  does  ever,  in  very  truth,  endure  there; 
is  brought  out,  now  in  this  dialect,  now  in  that,  with  vari- 
ous degrees  of  clearness:  all  true  gifted  Singers  and  Speak- 
ers are,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  doing  so.  The  dark 
stormful  indignation  of  a  Byron,  so  wayward  and  per- 
verse, may  have  touches  of  it;  nay  the  withered  mockery 
of  a  French  sceptic, — his  mockery  of  the  False,  a  love  and 
worship  of  the  True.  How  much  more  the  sphere- 
harmony  of  a  Shakspeare,  of  a  Goethe;  the  cathedral 
music  of  a  Milton !  They  are  something  too,  those  hum- 
ble genuine  lark  notes  of  a  Burns, — skylark,  starting  from 
the  humble  furrow,  far  overhead  into  the  blue  depths,  and 
singing  to  us  so  genuinely  there !  For  all  true  singing  is 
of  the  nature  of  worship;  as  indeed  all  true  working  may 
be  said  to  be, — whereof  such  singing  is  but  the  record,  and 
fit  melodious  representation,  to  us.  Fragments  of  a  real 
"Church  Liturgy"  and  "Body  of  Homilies,"  strangely 
disguised  from  the  common  eye,  are  to  be  found  weltering 
in  that  huge  froth-ocean  of  Printed  Speech  we  loosely 
call  Literature !  Books  are  our  Church  too. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  28$ 

Or  turning  now  to  the  Government  of  men.  Witena- 
gemote,  old  Parliament,  was  a  great  thing.  The  affairs 
of  the  nation  were  there  deliberated  and  decided;  what 
we  were  to  do  as  a  nation.  But  does  not,  though  the  name 
Parliament  subsists,  the  parliamentary  debate  go  on  now, 
everywhere  and  at  all  times,  in  a  far  more  comprehensive 
way,  out  of  Parliament  altogether?  Burke  said  there 
were  Three  Estates  in  Parliament;  but,  in  the  Reporters' 
Gallery  yonder,  there  sat  a  Fourth  Estate  more  important 
far  than  they  all.  It  is  not  a  figure  of  speech,  or  a  witty 
saying;  it  is  a  literal  fact, — very  momentous  to  us  in  these 
times.  Literature  is  our  Parliament  too.  Printing,  which 
comes  necessarily  out  of  Writing,  I  say  often,  is  equiva- 
lent to  Democracy:  invent  Writing,  Democracy  is  inevi- 
table. Writing  brings  Printing;  brings  universal  every- 
day extempore  Printing  as  we  see  at  present.  Whoever 
can  speak,  speaking  now  to  the  whole  nation,  becomes  a 
power,  a  branch  of  government,  with  inalienable  weight 
in  lawmaking,  in  all  acts  of  authority.  It  matters  not 
what  rank  he  has,  what  revenues  or  garnitures:  the  requi- 
site thing  is,  that  he  have  a  tongue  which  others  will 
listen  to;  this  and  nothing  more  is  requisite.  The  nation 
is  governed  by  all  that  has  tongue  in  the  nation:  Democ- 
racy is  virtually  there.  Add  only,  that  whatsoever  power 
exists  will  have  itself,  by  and  by,  organized;  working 
secretly  under  bandages,  obscurations,  obstructions,  it 
will  never  rest  till  it  get  to  work  free,  unencumbered,  visi- 
ble to  all.  Democracy  virtually  extant  will  insist  on  be- 
coming palpably  extant. 

On  all  sides,  are  we  not  driven  to  the  conclusion  that, 
of  the  things  which  man  can  do  or  make  here  below,  by 
far  the  most  momentous,  wonderful  and  worthy  are  the 
things  we  call  Books !  Those  poor  bits  of  rag-paper  with 
black  ink  on  them; — from  the  Daily  Newspaper  to  the 
sacred  Hebrew  Book,  what  have  they  not  done,  what  are 


290  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

they  not  doing! — For  indeed,  whatever  be  the  outwartf 
form  of  the  thing  (bits  of  paper,  as  we  say,  and  black 
ink),  is  it  not  verily,  at  bottom,  the  highest  act  of  man's 
faculty  that  produces  a  Book?  It  is  the  Thought  of  man; 
the  true  thaumaturgic  virtue;  by  which  man  works  all 
things  whatsoever.  All  that  he  does,  and  brings  to  pass, 
is  the  vesture  of  a  Thought.  This  London  City,  with 
all  its  houses,  palaces,  steam-engines,  cathedrals,  and  huge 
immeasurable  traffic  and  tumult,  what  is  it  but  a  Thought, 
but  millions  of  Thoughts  made  into  One; — a  huge,  im- 
measurable Spirit  of  Thought,  embodied  in  brick,  in  iron, 
smoke,  dust,  Palaces,  Parliaments,  Hackney  Coaches, 
Catherine  Docks,  and  the  rest  of  it!  Not  a  brick  was 
made  but  some  man  had  to  think  of  the  making  of  that 
brick. — The  thing  we  called  "bits  of  paper  with  traces 
of  black  ink,"  is  the  purest  embodiment  of  a  Thought 
man  can  have.  No  wonder  it  is,  in  all  ways,  the  activest 
and  noblest. 

All  this,  of  the  importance  and  supreme  importance  of 
the  Man  of  Letters  in  modern  Society,  and  how  the  Press 
is  to  such  a  degree  superseding  the  Pulpit,  the  Senate,  the 
Senatus  Academicus  and  much  else,  has  been  admitted 
for  a  good  while;  and  recognized  often  enough,  in  late 
times,  with  a  sort  of  sentimental  triumph  and  wonder- 
ment. It  seems  to  me,  the  Sentimental  by  and  by  will 
have  to  give  place  to  the  Practical.  If  Men  of  Letters 
are  so  incalculably  influential,  actually  performing  such 
work  for  us  from  age  to  age,  and  even  from  day  to  day, 
then  I  think  we  may  conclude  that  Men  of  Letters  will 
not  always  wander  like  unrecognized  unregulated  Ish- 
maelites  among  us !  Whatsoever  thing,  as  I  said  above, 
has  virtual  unnoticed  power  will  cast  off  its  wrappages, 
bandages,  and  step  forth  one  day  with  palpably  articu- 
lated, universally  visible  power.  That  one  man  wear  the 
clothes  and  take  the  wages  of  a  function  which  is  done 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  291 

by  quite  another:  there  can  be  no  profit  in  this;  this  is 
not  right,  it  is  wrong.  And  yet,  alas,  the  making  of  it 
right, — what  a  business,  for  long  times  to  come !  Sure 
enough,  this  that  we  call  Organization  of  the  Literary 
Guild  is  still  a  great  way  off,  encumbered  with  all  manner 
of  complexities.  If  you  asked  me  what  were  the  best 
possible  organization  for  the  Men  of  Letters  in  modern 
society;  the  arrangement  of  furtherance  and  regulation, 
grounded  the  most  accurately  on  the  actual  facts  of  their 
position  and  of  tho  world's  position, — I  should  beg  to  say 
that  the  problem  far  exceeded  my  faculty !  It  is  not  one 
man's  faculty;  it  is  that  of  many  successive  men  turned 
earnestly  upon  it,  that  will  bring  out  even  an  approximate 
solution.  What  the  best  arrangement  were,  none  of  us 
could  say.  But  if  you  ask,  Which  is  the  worst?  I  an- 
swer: This  which  we  now  have,  that  Chaos  should  sit 
umpire  in  it;  this  is  the  worst.  To  the  best,  or  any  good 
one,  there  is  yet  a  long  way. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

SELF-RELIANCE 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882),  one  of  the  famous 
New  England  group  of  writers,  was  the  son  of  a  Boston 
minister.  He  attended  the  Boston  Latin  School  and  Har- 
vard College,  where  he  waited  on  table  for  his  board. 
After  graduation  he  taught  school  for  a  time,  preached 
for  a  time,  and  then  found  his  real  vocation  as  lecturer 
and  writer.  His  home  was  in  Concord,  a  village  near 
Boston.  Here  he  spent  his  days  quietly,  the  mornings 
in  reading  and  writing,  the  afternoons  in  long  walks, 
usually  alone;  the  evenings  with  his  family.  At  this  time 
nearly  every  small  town  had  its  "lyceum,"  or  course  of 
lectures,  every  winter,  and  Emerson  was  much  in  demand 
as  a  lecturer.  He  gave  courses  on  science,  on  biography, 
and  on  literature.  Gradually  his  subjects  became  more 
general,  such  as  Compensation,  Heroism,  Self-Reliance, 
Spiritual  Laws.  Then  he  began  to  publish  the  substance 
of  these  lectures  as  books.  In  1847  he  was  invited  to 
England  to  lecture.  Here  he  met  Carlyle,  Coleridge, 
Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  other 
notable  people.  His  impressions  of  England  were  pub- 
lished under  the  title  English  Traits.  His  other  writ- 
ings are:  Nature,  Essays,  First  and  Second  Series,  Poems, 
Representative  Men,  Conduct  of  Life,  Society  and  Solitude, 
Letters  and  Social  Aims.  His  prose  works  are  practically 
all  essays,  and  are  of  the  reflective  type.  They  contain 
the  mature  wisdom  of  one  who  had  read  carefully  and 
thought  deeply.  They  are  not  easy  reading;  the  thought 
is  close-packed,  and  often  the  connection  between  one 
idea  and  the  next  is  not  evident,  but  one  who  reads  slowly 
and  attentively  will  be  richly  repaid. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

SELF-RELIANCE 

(From  Essays,  First  Series) 
Ne  te  qusesiveris  extra.* 

Man  is  his  own  star;  and  the  soul  that  can 
Render  an  honest  and  a  perfect  man, 
Commands  all  light,  all  influence,  all  fate; 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early  or  too  late. 
Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 
-Epilogue  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Honest  Man's  Fortune* 


Cast  the  bantling  on  the  rocks, 
Suckle  him  with  the  she-wolf's  teat, 
Wintered  with  the  hawk  and  fox, 
Power  and  speed  be  hands  and  feet. 

— EMERSON. 

I  read  the  other  day  some  verses  written  by  an  eminent 
painter  which  were  original  and  not  conventional.  Always 
the  soul  hears  an  admonition  in  such  lines,  let  the  subject 
be  what  it  may.  The  sentiment  they  instil  is  of  more 
value  than  any  thought  they  may  contain.  To  believe 
your  own  thought,  to  believe  that  what  is  true  for  you 
in  your  private  heart  is  true  for  all  men, — that  is  genius. 
Speak  your  latent  conviction,  and  it  shall  be  the  universal 
sense;  for  always  the  inmost  becomes  the  outmost — and 
our  first  thought  is  rendered  back  to  us  by  the  trumpets 
of  the  Last  Judgment.  Familiar  as  the  voice  of  the  mind 
is  to  each,  the  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to  Moses,  Plato, 

*  Do  not  seek  beyond  thyself. 
295 


296  THE  REFLECTIVE   ESSAY 

and  Milton  is  that  they  set  at  naught  books  and  tradi 
tions,  and  spoke  not  what  men,  but  what  they  thought. 
A  man  should  learn  to  detect  and  watch  that  gleam  of 
light  which  flashes  across  his  mind  from  within,  more 
than  the  lustre  of  the  firmament  of  bards  and  sages. 
Yet  he  dismisses  without  notice  his  thought,  because  it 
is  his.  In  every  work  of  genius  we  recognize  our  own 
rejected  thoughts;  they  come  back  to  us  with  a  certain 
alienated  majesty.  Great  works  of  art  have  no  more 
affecting  lesson  for  us  than  this.  They  teach  us  to  abide 
by  our  spontaneous  impression  with  good-humored  in- 
flexibility then  most  when  the  whole  cry  of  voices  is  on 
the  other  side.  Else  to-morrow  a  stranger  will  say  with 
masterly  good  sense  precisely  what  we  have  thought  and 
felt  all  the  time,  and  we  shall  be  forced  to  take  with, 
shame  our  own  opinion  from  another. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  man's  education  when  he  ar- 
rives at  the  conviction  that  envy  is  ignorance;  that  imi- 
tation is  suicide;  that  he  must  take  himself  for  better  for 
worse  as  his  portion;  that  though  the  wide  universe  is 
full  of  good,  no  kernel  of  nourishing  corn  can  come  to  him 
but  through  his  toil  bestowed  on  that  plot  of  ground 
which  is  given  to  him  to  till.  The  power  which  resides 
in  him  is  new  in  nature,  and  none  but  he  knows  what 
that  is  which  he  can  do,  nor  does  he  know  until  he  has 
tried.  Not  for  nothing  one  face,  one  character,  one  fact, 
makes  much  impression  on  him,  and  another  none.  It 
is  not  without  pre-established  harmony,  this  sculpture 
in  the  memory.  The  eye  was  placed  where  one  ray 
should  fall,  that  it  might  testify  of  that  particular  ray. 
Bravely  let  him  speak  the  utmost  syllable  of  his  conces- 
sion. We  but  half  express  ourselves,  and  are  ashamed  of 
that  divine  idea  which  each  of  us  represents.  It  may  be 
safely  trusted  as  proportionate  and  of  good  issues,  so  it 
be  faithfully  imparted,  but  God  will  not  have  his  work 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  297 

made  manifest  by  cowards.  It  needs  a  divine  man  to 
exhibit  anything  divine.  A  man  is  relieved  and  gay  when 
he  has  put  his  heart  into  his  work  and  done  his  best;  but 
what  he  has  said  or  done  otherwise  shall  give  him  no 
peace.  It  is  a  deliverance  which  does  not  deliver.  In 
the  attempt  his  genius  deserts  him;  no  muse  befriends; 
no  invention,  no  hope. 

Trust  thyself:  every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string. 
Accept  the  place  the  divine  providence  has  found  for  you, 
the  society  of  your  contemporaries,  the  connection  of 
events.  Great  men  have  always  done  so,  and  confided 
themselves  childlike  to  the  genius  of  their  age,  betraying 
their  perception  that  the  Eternal  was  stirring  at  their 
heart,  working  through  their  hands,  predominating  in 
all  their  being.  And  we  are  now  men,  and  must  accept 
in  the  highest  mind  the  same  transcendent  destiny;  and 
not  minors  and  invalids  in  a  protected  corner,  not  cowards 
fleeing  before  a  revolution,  but  redeemers  and  benefactors, 
pious  aspirants  to  be  noble  clay;  under  the  Almighty  ef- 
fort let  us  advance  on  Chaos  and  the  Dark. 

What  pretty  oracles  nature  yields  us  on  this  text  in 
the  face  and  behavior  of  children,  babes,  and  even  brutes. 
That  divided  and  rebel  mind,  that  distrust  of  a  sentiment 
because  our  arithmetic  has  computed  the  strength  and 
means  opposed  to  our  purpose,  these  have  not.  Their 
mind  being  whole,  their  eye  is  as  yet  unconquered,  and 
when  we  look  in  their  faces,  we  are  disconcerted.  In- 
fancy conforms  to  nobody;  all  conform  to  it;  so  that  one 
babe  commonly  makes  four  or  five  out  of  the  adults  who 
prattle  and  play  to  it.  So  God  has  armed  youth  and 
pubertv  and  manhood  no  less  with  its  own  piquancy  and 
enarm,  and  made  it  enviable  and  gracious  and  its  claims 
not  to  be  put  by,  if  it  will  stand  by  itself.  Do  not  think 
the  youth  has  no  force,  because  he  cannot  speak  to  you 
and  me.  Hark !  in  the  next  room  who  spoke  so  clear  and 


298  THE  REFLECTIVE   ESSAY 

emphatic?  It  seems  he  knows  how  to  speak  to  his  con- 
temporaries. Good  Heaven !  it  is  he !  it  is  that  very 
lump  of  bashfulness  and  phlegm  which  for  weeks  has  done 
nothing  but  eat  when  you  were  by,  and  now  rolls  out 
these  words  like  bell  strokes.  It  seems  he  knows  how  to 
speak  to  his  contemporaries.  Bashful  or  bold  then,  he 
will  know  how  to  make  us  seniors  very  unnecessary. 

The  nonchalance  of  boys  who  are  sure  of  a  dinner,  and 
would  disdain  as  much  as  a  lord  to  do  or  say  aught  to 
conciliate  one,  is  the  healthy  attitude  of  human  nature. 
How  is  a  boy  the  master  of  society;  independent,  irre- 
sponsible, looking  out  from  his  corner  on  such  people  and 
facts  as  pass  by,  he  tries  and  sentences  them  on  their 
merits,  in  the  swift,  summary  way  of  boys,  as  good,  bad, 
interesting,  silly,  eloquent,  troublesome.  He  cumbers 
himself  never  about  consequences,  about  interests;  he 
gives  an  independent,  genuine  verdict.  You  must  court 
him;  he  does  not  court  you.  But  the  man  is  as  it  were 
clapped  into  jail  by  his  consciousness.  As  soon  as  he 
has  once  acted  or  spoken  with  eclat  he  is  a  committed 
person,  watched  by  the  sympathy  or  the  hatred  of  hun- 
dreds, whose  affections  must  now  enter  into  his  account. 
There  is  no  Lethe  *  for  this.  Ah,  that  he  could  pass  again 
into  his  neutral,  godlike  independence!  Who  can  thus 
lose  all  pledge  and,  having  observed,  observe  again  from 
the  same  unaffected,  unbiassed,  unbribable,  unaffrighted 
innocence,  must  always  be  formidable,  must  always  en- 
gage the  poet's  and  the  man's  regards.  Of  such  an  im- 
mortal youth  the  force  would  be  felt.  He  would  utter 
opinions  on  all  passing  affairs,  which  being  seen  to  be 
not  private  but  necessary,  would  sink  like  darts  into  the 
ear  of  men  and  put  them  in  fear. 

These  are  the  voices  which  we  hear  in  solitude,  but 

*  Lethe.  In  Greek  mythology,  Lethe  was  a  river  in  Hades.  Those 
who  drank  of  its  waters  lost  all  memory  of  their  past  lives. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  299 

they  grow  faint  and  inaudible  as  we  enter  into  the  world. 
Society  everywhere  is  in  conspiracy  against  the  manhood 
of  every  one  of  its  members.  Society  is  a  joint-stock 
company,  in  which  the  members  agree,  for  the  better 
securing  of  his  bread  to  each  shareholder,  to  surrender 
the  liberty  and  culture  of  the  eater.  The  virtue  in  most 
request  is  conformity.  Self-reliance  is  its  aversion.  It 
loves  not  realities  and  creators,  but  names  and  customs. 
Whoso  would  be  a  man,  must  be  a  nonconformist.  He 
who  would  gather  immortal  palms  must  not  be  hindered 
by  the  name  of  goodness,  but  must  explore  if  it  be  good- 
ness. Nothing  is  at  last  sacred  but  the  integrity  of  our 
own  mind.  Absolve  you  to  yourself,  and  you  shall  have 
the  suffrage  of  the  world.  I  remember  an  answer  which 
when  quite  young  I  was  prompted  to  make  to  a  valued 
adviser  who  was  wont  to  importune  me  with  the  dear 
old  doctrines  of  the  church.  On  my  saying,  What  have 
I  to  do  with  the  sacredness  of  traditions,  if  I  live  wholly 
from  within?  my  friend  suggested,  — "But  these  impulses 
may  be  from  below,  not  from  above."  I  replied,  "They 
do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  such,  but  if  I  am  the  devil's  child, 
I  will  live  then  from  the  devil."  No  law  can  be  sacred 
to  me  but  that  of  my  nature.  Good  and  bad  are  but 
names  very  readily  transferable  to  that  or  this;  the  only 
right  is  what  is  after  my  constitution;  the  only  wrong 
what  is  against  it.  A  man  is  to  carry  himself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  all  opposition  as  if  everything  were  titular  and 
ephemeral  but  he.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  easily 
we  capitulate  to  badges  and  names,  to  large  societies  and 
dead  institutions.  Every  decent  and  well-spoken  indi- 
vidual affects  and  sways  me  more  than  is  right !  I  ought 
to  go  upright  and  vital,  and  speak  the  rude  truth  in  all 
ways.  If  malice  and  vanity  wear  the  coat  of  philanthropy, 
shall  that  pass?  If  an  angry  bigot  assumes  this  bounti- 
ful cause  of  Abolition,  and  comes  to  me  with  his  last 


300  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

news  from  Barbadoes,*  why  should  I  not  say  to  him,  "Go 
love  thy  infant;  love  thy  wood-chopper;  be  good-natured 
and  modest;  have  that  grace;  and  never  varnish  your 
hard,  uncharitable  ambition  with  this  incredible  tender- 
ness for  black  folk  a  thousand  miles  off.  Thy  love  afar 
is  spite  at  home."  Rough  and  graceless  would  be  such 
greeting,  but  truth  is  handsomer  than  the  affectation  of 
love.  Your  goodness  must  have  some  edge  to  it, — else 
it  is  none.  The  doctrine  of  hatred  must  be  preached,  as 
the  counteraction  of  the  doctrine  of  love,  when  that  pules 
and  whines.  I  shun  father  and  mother  and  wife  and 
brother  when  my  genius  calls  me.  I  would  write  on  the 
lintels  of  the  door  post,  Whim.  I  hope  it  is  somewhat 
better  than  whim  at  last,  but  we  cannot  spend  the  day 
in  explanation.  Expect  me  not  to  show  cause  why  I 
seek  or  why  I  exclude  company.  Then,  again,  do  not 
tell  me,  as  a  good  man  did  to-day,  of  my  obligation  to 
put  all  poor  men  in  good  situations.  Are  they  my  poor? 
I  tell  thee,  thou  foolish  philanthropist,  that  I  grudge  the 
dollar,  the  dime,  the  cent  I  give  to  such  men  as  do  not 
belong  to  me  and  to  whom  I  do  not  belong.  There  is  a 
class  of  persons  to  whom  by  all  spiritual  affinity  I  am 
bought  and  sold;  for  them  I  will  go  to  prison  if  need  be; 
but  your  miscellaneous  popular  charities;  the  education 
at  college  of  fools;  the  building  of  meeting-houses  to  the 
vain  end  to  which  many  now  stand;  alms  to  sots,  and  the 
thousandfold  Relief  Societies;— though  I  confess  with 
shame  I  sometime  succumb  and  give  the  dollar,  it  is  a 
wicked  dollar,  which  by  and  by  I  shall  have  the  manhood 
to  withhold. 

^  Virtues  are,  in  the  popular  estimate,  rather  the  excep- 
tion than  the  rule.  There  is  the  man  and  his  virtues. 
Men  do  what  is  called  a  good  action,  as  some  piece  of 

*  At  the  time  this  was  written,  slavery  still  existed  in  the  British 
West  Indies. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMSRSON  301 

courage  or  charity,  much  as  they  would  pay  a  fine  in  ex- 
piation of  daily  non-appearance  on  parade.  Their  workr 
are  done  as  an  apology  or  extenuation  of  their  living  in 
the  world, — as  invalids  and  the  insane  pay  a  high  board. 
Their  virtues  are  penances.  I  do  not  wish  to  expiate, 
but  to  live.  My  life  is  not  an  apology,  but  a  life.  It  is 
for  itself  and  not  for  a  spectacle.  I  much  prefer  that  it 
should  be  of  a  lower  strain,  so  it  be  genuine  and  equal, 
than  that  it  should  be  glittering  and  unsteady.  I  wish 
it  to  be  sound  and  sweet,  and  not  to  need  diet  and  bleed- 
ing. My  life  should  be  unique;  it  should  be  an  alms,  a 
battle,  a  conquest,  a  medicine.  I  ask  primary  evidence 
that  you  are  a  man,  and  refuse  this  appeal  from  the  man 
to  his  actions.  I  know  that  for  myself  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence whether  I  do  or  forbear  those  actions  which  are 
reckoned  excellent.  I  cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a  priv- 
ilege where  I  have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as 
my  gifts  may  be,  I  actually  am,  and  do  not  need  for  my 
own  assurance  or  the  assurance  of  my  fellows  any  secon- 
dary testimony. 

What  I  must  do  is  all  that  concerns  me,  not  what  the 
people  think.  This  rule,  equally  arduous  in  actual  and 
in  intellectual  life,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinction 
between  greatness  and  meanness.  It  is  the  harder  be- 
cause you  will  always  find  those  who  think  they  know 
what  is  your  duty  better  than  you  know  it.  It  is  easy 
in  the  world  to  live  after  the  world's  opinion;  it  is  easy 
in  solitude  to  live  after  our  own;  but  the  great  man  is 
he  who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  perfect 
sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude. 

The  objection  to  conforming  to  usages  that  have  be- 
come dead  to  you  is  that  it  scatters  your  force.  It  loses 
your  time  and  blurs  the  impression  of  your  character.  If 
you  maintain  a  dead  church,  contribute  to  a  dead  Bible 
Society,  vote  with  a  great  party  either  for  the  Govern- 


302  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

ment  or  against  it,  spread  your  table  like  base  house- 
keepers,— under  all  these  screens  I  have  difficulty  to  de- 
tect the  precise  man  you  are.  And  of  course  so  much 
force  is  withdrawn  from  your  proper  life.  But  do  your 
thing,  and  I  shall  know  you.  Do  your  work,  and  you 
shall  reinforce  yourself.  A  man  must  consider  what  a 
blindman's  buff  is  this  game  of  conformity.  If  I  know 
your  sect  I  anticipate  your  argument.  I  hear  a  preacher 
announce  for  his  text  and  topic  the  expediency  of  one  of 
the  institutions  of  his  church.  Do  I  not  know  before- 
hand that  not  possibly  can  he  say  a  new  and  spontaneous 
word?  Do  I  not  know  that  with  all  this  ostentation  of 
examining  the  grounds  of  the  institution  he  will  do  no 
such  thing?  Do  I  not  know  that  he  is  pledged  to  himself 
not  to  look  but  at  one  side,  the  permitted  side,  not  as  a 
man,  but  as  a  parish  minister  ?  He  is  a  retained  attorney, 
and  these  airs  of  the  bench  are  the  emptiest  affectation. 
Well,  most  men  have  bound  their  eyes  with  one  or  another 
handkerchief,  and  attached  themselves  to  some  one  of 
these  communities  of  opinion.  This  conformity  makes 
them  not  false  in  a  few  particulars,  authors  of  a  few  lies, 
but  false  in  all  particulars.  Their  every  truth  is  not 
quite  true.  Their  two  is  not  the  real  two,  their  four  not 
the  real  four:  so  that  every  word  they  say  chagrins  us 
and  we  know  not  where  to  begin  to  set  them  right.  Mean- 
time nature  is  not  slow  to  equip  us  in  the  prison  uniform 
of  the  party  to  which  we  adhere.  We  come  to  wear  one 
cut  of  face  and  figure,  and  acquire  by  degrees  the  gentlest 
asinine  expression.  There  is  a  mortifying  experience  in 
particular,  which  does  not  fail  to  wreak  itself  also  in  the 
general  history;  I  mean  "the  foolish  face  of  praise,"  the 
forced  smile  which  we  put  on  in  company  where  we  do 
not  feel  at  ease,  in  answer  to  conversation  which  does  not 
interest  us.  The  muscles,  not  spontaneously  moved  but 
moved  by  a  low  usurping  wilfulness,  grow  tight  about  the 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  303 

outline  of  the  face,  and  make  the  most  disagreeable  sen- 
sation; a  sensation  of  rebuke  and  warning  which  no  brave 
young  man  will  suffer  twice. 

For  non-conformity  the  world  whips  you  with  its  dis- 
pleasure. And  therefore  a  man  must  know  how  to  esti- 
mate a  sour  face.  The  bystanders  look  askance  on  him 
in  the  public  street  or  in  the  friend's  parlor.  If  this 
aversation  had  its  origin  in  contempt  and  resistance  like 
his  own  he  might  well  go  home  with  a  sad  countenance; 
but  the  sour  faces  of  the  multitude,  like  their  sweet  faces, 
have  no  deep  cause — disguise  no  god,  but  are  put  on  and 
off  as  the  wind  blows  and  a  newspaper  directs.  Yet  is 
the  discontent  of  the  multitude  more  formidable  than  that 
of  the  senate  and  the  college.  It  is  easy  enough  for  a 
firm  man  who  knows  the  world  to  brook  the  rage  of  the 
cultivated  classes.  Their  rage  is  decorous  and  prudent, 
for  they  are  timid,  as  being  very  vulnerable  themselves. 
But  when  to  their  feminine  rage  the  indignation  of  the 
people  is  added,  when  the  ignorant  and  the  poor  are 
aroused,  when  the  unintelligent  brute  force  that  lies  at 
the  bottom  of  society  is  made  to  growl  and  mow,  it  needs 
the  habit  of  magnanimity  and  religion  to  treat  it  godlike 
as  a  trifle  of  no  concernment. 

The  other  terror  that  scares  us  from  self-trust  is  our 
consistency;  a  reverence  for  our  past  act  or  word  because 
the  eyes  of  others  have  no  other  data  for  computing  our 
orbit  than  our  past  acts,  and  we  are  loath  to  disappoint 
them. 

But  why  should  you  keep  your  head  over  your  shoulder? 
Why  drag  about  this  monstrous  corpse  of  your  memory, 
lest  you  contradict  somewhat  you  have  stated  in  this  or 
that  public  place?  Suppose  you  should  contradict  your- 
self; what  then?  It  seems  to  be  a  rule  of  wisdom  never 
to  rely  on  your  memory  alone,  scarcely  even  in  acts  of 
pure  memory,  but  to  bring  the  past  for  judgment  into  the 


304  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

thousand-eyed  present,  and  live  ever  in  a  new  day. 
Trust  your  emotion.  In  your  metaphysics  you  have 
denied  personality  to  the  Deity,  yet  when  the  devout 
motions  of  the  soul  come,  yield  to  them  heart  and  life, 
though  they  should  clothe  God  with  shape  and  color. 
Leave  your  theory,  as  Joseph  his  coat  in  the  hand  of  the 
harlot,  and  flee. 

A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds, 
adored  by  little  statesmen  and  philosophers  and  divines. 
With  consistency  a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing  to  do. 
He  may  as  well  concern  himself  with  his  shadow  on  the 
wall.  Out  upon  your  guarded  lips !  Sew  them  up  with 
packthread,  do.  Else  if  you  would  be  a  man  speak  what 
you  think  to-day  in  words  as  hard  as  cannon-balls,  and 
to-morrow  speak  what  to-morrow  thinks  in  hard  words 
again,  though  it  contradict  everything  you  said  to-day. 
Ah,  then,  exclaim  the  aged  ladies,  you  shall  be  sure  to  be 
misunderstood !  Misunderstood !  It  is  a  right  fool's 
word.  Is  it  so  bad  then  to  be  misunderstood?  Pythag- 
oras* was  misunderstood,  and  Socrates,  and  Jesus,  and 
Luther,  and  Copernicus,  and  Galileo,  and  Newton,  and 
every  pure  and  wise  spirit  that  ever  took  flesh.  To  be 
great  is  to  be  misunderstood. 

I  suppose  no  man  can  violate  his  nature.  All  the  sallies 
of  his  will  are  rounded  in  by  the  law  of  his  being,  as  the 
inequalities  of  Andes  and  Himmaleh  are  insignificant  in 
the  curve  of  the  sphere.  Nor  does  it  matter  how  you 
gauge  and  try  him.  A  character  is  like  an  acrostic  or 
Alexandrianf  stanza; — read  it  forward,  backward,  or 

*  Pythagoras  and  Socrates  were  Greek  philosophers;  one  was  ban- 
ished; the  other  was  unjustly  sentenced  to  death.  Copernicus  and 
Galileo  were  famous  astronomers.  Copernicus  established  the  theory 
that  the  earth  revolved  about  the  sun,  but  for  fear  of  persecution 
dared  not  announce  his  discovery;  Galileo  was  imprisoned  for  pub- 
lishing his  discoveries. 

t  Alexandrian  stanza,  a  line  of  twelve  syllables.  Emerson  prob- 
ably meant  the  palindrome,  which  reads  the  same  backward  or  f  ?r 
ward,  as  "Madam,  I'm  Adam." 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  305 

across,  it  still  spells  the  same  thing.  In  this  pleasing  con- 
trite wood  life  which  God  allows  me,  let  me  record  day 
by  day  my  honest  thought  without  prospect  or  retrospect, 
and,  I  cannot  doubt,  it  will  be  found  symmetrical,  though 
I  mean  it  not  and  see  it  not.  My  book  should  smell  of 
pines  and  resound  with  the  hum  of  insects.  The  swallow 
over  my  window  should  interweave  that  thread  or  straw 
he  carries  in  his  bill  into  my  web  also.  We  pass  for  what 
we  are.  Character  teaches  above  our  wills.  Men  imagine 
that  they  communicate  their  virtue  or  vice  only  by  overt 
actions,  and  do  not  see  that  virtue  or  vice  emit  a  breath 
every  moment. 

Fear  never  but  you  shall  be  consistent  in  whatever 
variety  of  actions,  so  they  be  each  honest  and  natural  in 
their  hour.  For  of  one  will,  the  actions  will  be  harmoni- 
ous, however  unlike  they  seem.  These  varieties  are  lost 
sight  of  when  seen  at  a  little  distance,  at  a  little  height  of 
thought.  One  tendency  unites  them  all.  The  voyage 
of  the  best  ship  is  a  zigzag  line  of  a  hundred  tacks.  This 
is  only  microscopic  criticism.  See  the  line  from  a  suffi- 
cient distance,  and  it  straightens  itself  to  the  average 
tendency.  Your  genuine  action  will  explain  itself  and 
will  explain  your  other  genuine  actions.  Your  conformity 
explains  nothing.  Act  singly,  and  what  you  have  already 
done  singly  will  justify  you  now.  Greatness  always  ap- 
peals to  the  future.  If  I  can  be  great  enough  now  to  do 
right  and  scorn  eyes,  I  must  have  done  so  much  right  be- 
fore as  to  defend  me  now.  Be  it  how  it  will,  do  right  now. 
Always  scorn  appearances  and  you  always  may.  The 
force  of  character  is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone  days 
of  virtue  work  their  health  into  this.  What  makes  the 
majesty  of  the  heroes  of  the  senate  and  the  field,  which 
so  fills  the  imagination?  The  consciousness  of  a  train 
of  great  days  and  victories  behind.  There  they  all  stand 
and  shed  an  united  light  on  the  advancing  actor.  He  is 


306  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

attended  as  by  a  visible  escort  of  angels  to  every  man's 
eye.  That  is  it  which  throws  thunder  into  Chatham's 
voice,  and  dignity  into  Washington's  port,  and  America 
into  Adams's  eye.  Honor  is  venerable  to  us  because  it  is 
no  ephemeris.  It  is  always  ancient  virtue.  We  worship 
it  to-day  because  it  is  not  of  to-day.  We  love  it  and  pay 
it  homage  because  it  is  not  a  trap  for  our  love  and  homage, 
but  is  self-dependent,  self-derived,  and  therefore  of  an 
old  immaculate  pedigree,  even  if  shown  in  a  young  person. 
I  hope  in  these  days  we  have  heard  the  last  of  conform- 
ity and  consistency.  Let  the  words  be  gazetted  and 
ridiculous  henceforward.  Instead  of  the  gong  for  dinner, 
let  us  hear  a  whistle  from  the  Spartan  fife.  Let  us  bow 
and  apologize  nevermore.  A  great  man  is  coming  to 
eat  at  my  house.  I  do  not  wish  to  please  him:  I  wish 
that  he  should  wish  to  please  me.  I  will  stand  here  for 
humanity,  and  though  I  would  make  it  kind,  I  would 
make  it  true.  Let  us  affront  and  reprimand  the  smooth 
mediocrity  and  squalid  contentment  of  the  times,  and 
hurl  in  the  face  of  custom  and  trade  and  office,  the  fact 
which  is  the  upshot  of  all  history,  that  there  is  a  great 
responsible  Thinker  and  Actor  moving  wherever  moves 
a  man;  that  a  true  man  belongs  to  no  other  time  or  place, 
but  is  the  centre  of  things.  Where  he  is,  there  is  nature. 
He  measures  you  and  all  men  and  all  events.  You  are 
constrained  to  accept  his  standard.  Ordinarily,  every- 
body in  society  reminds  us  of  somewhat  else,  or  of  some 
other  person.  Character,  reality,  reminds  you  of  nothing 
else;  it  takes  place  of  the  whole  creation.  The  man  must 
be  so  much  that  he  must  make  all  circumstances  indiffer- 
ent— put  all  means  into  the  shade.  This  all  great  men 
are  and  do.  Every  true  man  is  a  cause,  a  country,  and 
an  age;  requires  infinite  spaces  and  numbers  and  time 
fully  to  accomplish  his  thought;-— and  posterity  seem  to 
follow  his  steps  as  a  procession.  A  man  Csesar  is  born, 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  307 

and  for  ages  after  we  have  a  Roman  Empire.  Christ  is 
born,  and  millions  of  minds  so  grow  and  cleave  to  his 
genius  that  he  is  confounded  with  virtue  and  the  possible 
of  man.  An  institution  is  the  lengthened  shadow  of  one 
man;  as,  the  Reformation,  of  Luther;  Quakerism,  of  Fox; 
Methodism,  of  Wesley;  Abolition,  of  Clarkson.  Scipio, 
Milton  called  "the  height  of  Rome";  and  all  history  re- 
solves itself  very  easily  into  the  biography  of  a  few  stout 
and  earnest  persons. 

Let  a  man  then  know  his  worth,  and  keep  things  under 
his  feet.  Let  him  not  peep  or  steal,  or  skulk  up  and  down 
with  the  air  of  a  charity  boy,  a  bastard,  or  an  interloper 
in  the  world  which  exists  for  him.  But  the  man  in  the 
street,  finding  no  worth  in  himself  which  corresponds  to 
the  force  which  built  a  tower  or  sculptured  a  marble  god, 
feels  poor  when  he  looks  on  these.  To  him  a  palace,  a 
statue,  or  a  costly  book  have  an  alien  and  forbidding  air, 
much  like  a  gay  equipage,  and  seem  to  say  like  that, 
"Who  are  you,  sir?"  Yet  they  all  are  his,  suitors  for  his 
notice,  petitioners  to  his  faculties  that  they  will  come  out 
and  take  possession.  The  picture  waits  for  my  verdict; 
it  is  not  to  command  me,  but  I  am  to  settle  its  claim  to 
praise.  That  popular  fable*  of  the  sot  who  was  picked 
up  dead  drunk  in  the  street,  carried  to  the  duke's  house, 
washed  and  dressed  and  laid  in  the  duke's  bed,  and,  on 
his  waking,  treated  with  all  obsequious  ceremony  like  the 
duke,  and  assured  that  he  had  been  insane — owes  its 
popularity  to  the  fact  that  it  symbolizes  so  well  the  state 
of  man,  who  is  in  the  world  a  sort  of  sot,  but  now  and 
then  wakes  up,  exercises  his  reason  and  finds  himself  a 
true  prince. 

Our  reading  is  mendicant  and  sycophantic.     In  history 

*  The  story  is  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  under  the  title  "Abou  Has- 
san, or  the  Sleeper  Awakened."  It  is  also  used  by  Shakespeare  in 
the  Induction  to  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


308  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

our  imagination  makes  fools  of  us,  plays  us  false.  King- 
dom and  lordship,  power  and  estate,  are  a  gaudier  vocab- 
ulary than  private  John  and  Edward  in  a  small  house 
and  common  day's  work:  but  the  things  of  life  are  the 
same  to  both:  the  sum  total  of  both  is  the  same.  Why 
all  this  deference  to  Alfred  and  Scanderberg*  and  Gus- 
tavus?  f  Suppose  they  were  virtuous;  did  they  wear  out 
virtue  ?  As  great  a  stake  depends  on  your  private  act  to- 
day as  followed  their  public  and  renowned  steps.  When 
private  men  shall  act  with  original  views,  the  lustre  will 
be  transferred  from  the  actions  of  kings  to  those  of  gen- 
tlemen. 

The  world  has  indeed  been  instructed  by  its  kings,  who 
have  so  magnetized  the  eyes  of  nations.  It  has  been 
taught  by  this  colossal  symbol  the  mutual  reverence  that 
is  due  from  man  to  man.  The  joyful  loyalty  with  which 
men  have  everywhere  suffered  the  king,  the  noble,  or 
the  great  proprietor  to  walk  among  them  by  a  law  of 
his  own,  make  his  own  scale  of  men  and  things  and  re- 
verse theirs,  pay  for  benefits  not  with  money  but  with 
honor,  and  represent  the  Law  in  his  person,  was  the 
hieroglyphic  by  which  they  obscurely  signified  their  con- 
sciousness of  their  own  right  and  comeliness,  the  right  of 
every  man. 

The  magnetism  which  all  original  action  exerts  is  ex- 
plained when  we  inquire  the  reason  of  self-trust.  Who 
is  the  Trustee?  What  is  the  aboriginal  Self,  on  which  a 
universal  reliance  may  be  grounded  ?  What  is  the  nature 
and  power  of  that  science-baffling  star,  without  parallax,! 

*  Scanderberg,  an  Albanian  leader  of  the  fifteenth  century  who 
successfully  defended  his  country  against  Turkey. 

t  Gustavus,  Gustavus  Adolphus  of  Sweden,  who  defeated  Russia 
in  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 

t  Parallax,  a  reference  to  the  method  of  calculating  the  distance 
of  the  stars.  A  star  without  parallax  would  be  so  remote  that  its 
distance  could  not  be  calculated. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  309 

without  calculable  elements,  which  shoots  a  ray  of  beauty 
even  into  trivial  and  impure  actions,  if  the  least  mark 
of  independence  appear?  The  inquiry  leads  us  to  that 
source,  at  once  the  essence  of  genius,  the  essence  of  virtue, 
and  the  essence  of  life,  which  we  call  Spontaneity  or  In- 
stinct. We  denote  this  primary  wisdom  as  Intuition, 
whilst  all  later  teachings  are  tuitions.  In  that  deep  force, 
the  last  fact  behind  which  analysis  cannot  go,  all  things 
find  their  common  origin.  For  the  sense  of  being  which 
in  calm  hours  rises,  we  know  not  how,  in  the  soul,  is  not 
diverse  from  things,  from  space,  from  light,  from  time, 
from  man,  but  one  with  them  and  proceedeth  obviously 
from  the  same  source  whence  their  life  and  being  also 
proceedetri.  We  first  share  the  life  by  which  things  exist, 
and  afterward  see  them  as  appearances  in  nature  and 
forget  that  we  have  shared  their  cause.  Here  is  the  foun- 
tain of  action  and  the  fountain  of  thought.  Here  are 
the  lungs  of  that  inspiration  which  giveth  man  wisdom, 
of  that  inspiration  of  man  which  cannot  be  denied  with- 
out impiety  and  atheism.  We  lie  in  the  lap  of  immense 
intelligence,  which  makes  us  organs  of  its  activity  and  re- 
ceivers of  its  truth.  When  we  discern  justice,  when  we 
discern  truth,  we  do  nothing  of  ourselves,  but  allow  a 
passage  to  its  beams.  If  we  ask  whence  this  comes,  if 
we  seek  to  pry  into  the  soul  that  causes, — all  metaphysics, 
all  philosophy  is  at  fault.  Its  presence  or  its  absence  is 
all  we  can  affirm.  Every  man  discerns  between  the  vol- 
untary acts  of  his  mind  and  his  involuntary  perceptions. 
And  to  his  involuntary  perceptions  he  knows  a  perfect 
respect  is  due.  He  may  err  in  the  expression  of  them, 
but  he  knows  that  these  things  are  so,  like  day  and  night, 
not  to  be  disputed.  All  my  wilful  actions  and  acquisitions 
are  but  roving; — the  most  trivial  revery,  the  faintest 
native  emotion,  are  domestic  and  divine.  Thoughtless 
people  contradict  as  readily  the  statement  of  perceptions 


310  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

as  of  opinions,  or  rather  much  more  readily;  for  they  do 
not  distinguish  between  perception  and  notion.  They 
fancy  that  I  choose  to  see  this  or  that  thing.  But  per- 
ception is  not  whimsical,  but  fatal.*  If  I  see  a  trait,  my 
children  will  see  it  after  me,  and  in  course  of  time  all 
mankind, — although  it  may  chance  that  no  one  has  seen 
it  before  me.  For  my  perception  of  it  is  as  much  a  fact 
as  the  sun. 

The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine  spirit  are  so  pure 
that  it  is  profane  to  seek  to  interpose  helps.  It  must  be 
that  when  God  speaketh  he  should  communicate,  not 
one  thing,  but  all  things;  should  fill  the  world  with  his 
voice;  should  scatter  forth  light,  nature,  time,  souls,  from 
the  centre  of  the  present  thought;  and  new  date  and  new 
create  the  whole.  Whenever  a  mind  is  simple  and  re- 
ceives a  divine  wisdom,  then  old  things  pass  away, — 
means,  teachers,  texts,  temples  fall;  it  lives  now,  and 
absorbs  past  and  future  into  the  present  hour.  All 
things  are  made  sacred  by  relation  to  it, — one  thing  as 
much  as  another.  All  things  are  dissolved  to  their  centre 
by  their  cause,  and  in  the  universal  miracle  petty  and 
particular  miracles  disappear.  This  is  and  must  be.  If 
therefore  a  man  claims  to  know  and  speak  of  God  and 
carries  you  backward  to  the  phraseology  of  some  old 
mouldered  nation  in  another  country,  in  another  world, 
believe  him  not.  Is  the  acorn  better  than  the  oak  which 
is  its  fulness  and  completion?  Is  the  parent  better  than 
the  child  into  whom  he  has  cast  his  ripened  being? 
Whence  then  this  worship  of  the  past?  The  centuries 
are  conspirators  against  the  sanity  and  majesty  of  the 
soul.  Time  and  space  are  but  physiological  colors  which 
the  eye  maketh,  but  the  soul  is  light;  where  it  is,  is  day; 
where  it  was,  is  night;  and  history  is  an  impertinence  and 
an  injury  if  it  be  anything  more  than  a  cheerful  apologue 
or  parable  of  my  being  and  becoming. 

*  Fatal,  here  meaning  ordained  by  fate. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  311 

Man  is  timid  and  apologetic;  he  is  no  longer  upright; 
he  dares  not  say  "I  think/7  "I  am,"  but  quotes  some  saint 
or  sage.  He  is  ashamed  before  the  blade  of  grass  or  the 
blowing  rose.  These  roses  under  my  window  make  no 
reference  to  former  roses  or  to  better  ones;  they  are  for 
what  they  are;  they  exist  with  God  to-day.  There  is  no 
time  to  them.  There  is  simply  the  rose;  it  is  perfect  in 
every  moment  of  its  existence.  Before  a  leaf-bud  has 
burst,  its  whole  life  acts;  in  the  full-blown  flower  there  is 
no  more;  in  the  leafless  root  there  is  no  less.  Its  nature 
is  satisfied  and  it  satisfies  nature  in  all  moments  alike. 
There  is  no  time  to  it.  But  man  postpones  or  remem- 
bers; he  does  not  live  in  the  present,  but  with  reverted 
eye  laments  the  past,  or,  heedless  of  the  riches  that  sur- 
round him,  stands  on  tiptoe  to  foresee  the  future.  He 
cannot  be  happy  and  strong  until  he  too  lives  with  nature 
in  the  present,  above  time. 

This  should  be  plain  enough.  Yet  see  what  strong  in- 
tellects dare  not  yet  hear  God  himself  unless  he  speak  the 
phraseology  of  I  know  not  what  David,  or  Jeremiah,  or 
Paul.  We  shall  not  always  set  so  great  a  price  on  a  few 
texts,  on  a  few  lives.  We  are  like  children  who  repeat 
by  rote  the  sentences  of  grandames  and  tutors,  and,  as 
they  grow  older,  of  the  men  of  talents  and  character  they 
chance  to  see, — painfully  recollecting  the  exact  words 
they  spoke;  afterward,  when  they  come  into  the  point  of 
view  which  those  had  who  uttered  these  sayings,  they 
understand  them  and  are  willing  to  let  the  words  go;  for 
at  any  time  they  can  use  words  as  good  when  occasion 
comes.  So  was  it  with  us,  so  will  it  be,  if  we  proceed. 
If  we  live  truly,  we  shall  see  truly.  It  is  as  easy  for  the 
strong  man  to  be  strong,  as  it  is  for  the  weak  to  be  weak. 
When  we  have  new  perception,  we  shall  gladly  disburthen 
the  memory  of  its  hoarded  treasures  as  old  rubbish.  When 
a  man  lives  with  God,  his  voice  shall  be  as  sweet  as  the 
murmur  of  the  brook  and  the  rustle  of  the  corn. 


312  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

And  now  at  last  the  highest  truth  on  this  subject  re- 
mains unsaid;  probably  cannot  be  said;  for  all  that  we 
say  is  the  far-off  remembering  of  the  intuition.  That 
thought,  by  what  I  can  now  nearest  approach  to  say  it, 
is  this.  When  good  is  near  you,  when  you  have  life  in 
yourself, — it  is  not  by  any  known  or  appointed  way;  you 
shall  not  discern  the  footprints  of  any  other;  you  shall 
not  see  the  face  of  man;  you  shall  not  hear  any  name; — 
the  way,  the  thought,  the  good,  shall  be  wholly  strange 
and  new.  It  shall  exclude  all  other  being.  You  take 
the  way  from  man,  not  to  man.  All  persons  that  ever 
existed  are  its  fugitive  ministers.  There  shall  be  no  fear 
in  it.  Fear  and  hope  are  alike  beneath  it.  It  asks  noth- 
ing. There  is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  We  are  then 
in  vision.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  called  gratitude, 
nor  properly  joy.  The  soul  is  raised  over  passion.  It 
seeth  identity  and  eternal  causation.  It  is  a  perceiving 
that  Truth  and  Right  are.  Hence  it  becomes  a  Tran- 
quillity out  of  the  knowing  that  all  things  go  well.  Vast 
spaces  of  nature;  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  the  South  Sea;  vast 
intervals  of  time,  years,  centuries,  are  of  no  account. 
This  which  I  think  and  feel  underlay  that  former  state 
of  life  and  circumstances,  as  it  does  underlie  my  present 
and  will  always  all  circumstances,  and  what  \s  called  life 
and  what  is  called  death. 

life  only  avails,  not  the  having  lived.  Power  ceases 
in  the  instant  of  repose;  it  resides  in  the  moment  of  tran- 
sition from  a  past  to  a  new  state,  in  the  shooting  of  the 
gulf,  in  the  darting  to  an  aim.  This  one  fact  the  world 
hates,  that  the  soul  becomes;  for  that  forever  degrades 
the  past;  turns  all  riches  to  poverty,  all  reputation  to  a 
shame;  confounds  the  saint  with  the  rogue;  shoves  Jesus 
and  Judas  equally  aside.  Why  then  do  we  prate  of  self- 
reliance?  Inasmuch  as  the  soul  is  present  there  will  be 
power  not  confident  but  agent.  To  talk  of  reliance  is  a 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  313 

poor  external  way  of  speaking.  Speak  rather  of  that 
which  relies  because  it  works  and  is.  Who  has  more  soul 
than  I  masters  me,  though  he  should  not  raise  his  finger. 
Round  him  I  must  revolve  by  the  gravitation  of  spirits. 
Who  has  less  I  rule  with  like  facility.  We  fancy  it  rhet- 
oric when  we  speak  of  eminent  virtue.  We  do  not  yet 
see  that  virtue  is  Height,  and  that  a  man  or  a  company 
of  men,  plastic  and  permeable  to  principles,  by  the  law 
of  nature  must  overpower  and  ride  all  cities,  nations, 
kings,  rich  men,  poets,  who  are  not. 

This  is  the  ultimate  fact  which  we  so  quickly  reach  on 
this,  as  on  every  topic,  the  resolution  of  all  into  the  ever- 
blessed  ONE.  Virtue  is  the  governor,  the  creator,  the 
reality.  All  things  real  are  so  by  so  much  virtue  as  they 
contain.  Hardship,  husbandry,  hunting,  whaling,  war, 
eloquence,  personal  weight,  are  somewhat,  and  engage 
my  respect  as  examples  of  the  soul's  presence  and  impure 
action.  I  see  the  same  law  working  in  nature  for  con- 
servation and  growth.  The  poise  of  a  planet,  the  bended 
tree  recovering  itself  from  the  strong  wind,  the  vital  re- 
sources of  every  animal  and  vegetable,  are  also  demon- 
strations of  the  self-sufficing  and  therefore  self-relying 
soul.  All  history,  from  its  highest  to  its  trivial  passages 
is  the  various  record  of  this  power. 

Thus  all  concentrates;  let  us  not  rove;  let  us  sit  at 
home  with  the  cause.  Let  us  stun  and  astonish  the  in- 
truding rabble  of  men  and  books  and  institutions  by  a 
simple  declaration  of  the  divine  fact.  Bid  them  take  the 
shoes  from  off  their  feet,  for  God  is  here  within.  Let  our 
simplicity  judge  them,  and  our  docility  to  our  own  law 
demonstrate  the  poverty  of  nature  and  fortune  beside 
our  native  riches. 

But  now  we  are  a  mob.  Man  does  not  stand  in  awe 
of  man,  nor  is  the  soul  admonished  to  stay  at  home,  to 
put  itself  in  communication  with  the  internal  ocean,  but 


314  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

it  goes  abroad  to  beg  a  cup  of  water  of  the  urns  of  men. 
We  must  go  alone.  Isolation  must  precede  true  society. 
I  like  the  silent  church  before  the  service  begins  better 
than  any  preaching.  How  far  off,  how  cool,  how  chaste 
the  persons  look,  begirt  each  one  with  a  precinct  or  sanc- 
tuary. So  let  us  always  sit.  Why  should  we  assume  the 
faults  of  our  friend,  or  wife,  or  father,  or  child,  because 
they  sit  around  our  hearth,  or  are  said  to  have  the  same 
blood?  All  men  have  my  blood  and  I  have  all  men's. 
Not  for  that  will  I  adopt  their  petulance  or  folly,  even  to 
the  extent  of  being  ashamed  of  it.  But  your  isolation 
must  not  be  mechanical,  but  spiritual,  that  is,  must  be 
elevation.  At  times  the  wliole  world  seems  to  be  in  con- 
spiracy to  importune  you  with  emphatic  trifles.  Friend, 
client,  child,  sickness,  fear,  want,  charity,  all  knock  at 
once  at  thy  closet  door  and  say,  "Come  out  unto  us." — 
Do  not  spill  thy  soul;  do  not  all  descend;  keep  thy  state; 
stay  at  home  in  thine  own  heaven;  come  not  for  a  mo- 
ment into  their  facts,  into  their  hubbub  of  conflicting 
appearances,  but  let  in  the  light  of  thy  law  on  their  con- 
fusion. The  power  men  possess  to  annoy  me  I  give  them 
by  a  weak  curiosity.  No  man  can  come  near  me  but 
through  my  act.  "What  we  love,  that  we  have;  but  by 
desire  we  bereave  ourselves  of  the  love." 

If  we  cannot  at  once  rise  to  the  sanctities  of  obedience 
and  faith,  let  us  at  least  resist  our  temptations,  let  us 
enter  into  the  state  of  war  and  wake  Thor  and  Woden, 
courage  and  constancy,  in  our  Saxon  breasts.  This  is 
to  be  done  in  our  smooth  times  by  speaking  the  truth. 
Check  this  lying  hospitality  and  lying  affection.  Live 
no  longer  to  the  expectation  of  these  deceived  and  deceiv- 
ing people  with  whom  we  converse.  Say  to  them,  0 
father,  0  mother,  O  wife,  0  brother,  O  friend,  I  have 
lived  with  you  after  appearances  hitherto.  Henceforward 
I  am  the  truth's.  Be  it  known  unto  vou  that  hence- 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  315 

forward  I  obey  no  law  less  than  the  eternal  law.  I  will 
have  no  covenants  but  proximities.  I  shall  endeavor  to 
nourish  my  parents,  to  support  my  family,  to  be  the 
chaste  husband  of  one  wife, — but  these  relations  I  must 
fill  after  a  new  and  unprecedented  way.  I  appeal  from 
your  customs.  I  must  be  myself.  I  cannot  break  my- 
self any  longer  for  you,  or  you.  If  you  can  love  me  for 
what  I  am,  we  shall  be  happier.  If  you  cannot,  I  will 
still  seek  to  deserve  that  you  should.  I  must  be  myself. 
I  will  not  hide  my  tastes  or  aversions.  I  will  so  trust 
that  what  is  deep  is  holy,  that  I  will  do  strongly  before 
the  sun  and  moon  whatever  inly  rejoices  me  and  the 
heart  appoints.  If  you  are  noble,  I  will  love  you;  if  you 
are  not,  I  will  not  hurt  you  and  myself  by  hypocritical 
attentions.  If  you  are  true,  but  not  in  the  same  truth 
with  me,  cleave  to  your  companions;  I  will  seek  my  own. 
I  do  this  not  selfishly  but  humbly  and  truly.  It  is  alike 
your  interest,  and  mine,  and  all  men's,  however  long  we 
have  dwelt  in  lies,  to  live  in  truth.  Does  this  sound 
harsh  to-day?  You  will  soon  love  what  is  dictated  by 
your  nature  as  well  as  mine,  and  if  we  follow  the  truth 
it  will  bring  us  out  safe  at  last. — But  so  may  you  give 
these  friends  pain.  Yes,  but  I  cannot  sell  my  liberty  and 
my  power,  to  save  their  sensibility.  Besides,  all  persons 
have  their  moments  of  reason,  when  they  look  out  into 
the  region  of  absolute  truth;  then  will  they  justify  me  and 
do  the  same  thing. 

The  populace  think  that  your  rejection  of  popular 
standards  is  a  rejection  of  all  standard,  and  mere  anti- 
nomianism;*  and  the  bold  sensualist  will  use  the  name  of 
philosophy  to  gild  his  crimes.  But  the  law  of  conscious- 
ness abides.  There  are  two  confessionals,  in  one  or  the 
other  of  which  we  must  be  shriven.  You  may  fulfil 

*  Antmomianism,  the  doctrine  that  one  may  be  saved  by  faith, 
regardless  of  his  disobedience  of  the  moral  law. 


316  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

your  round  of  duties  by  clearing  yourself  in  the  direct, 
or  in  the  reflex  way.  Consider  whether  you  have  satis- 
fied your  relations  to  father,  mother,  cousin,  neighbor, 
town,  cat  and  dog;  whether  any  of  these  can  upbraid  you. 
But  I  may  also  neglect  this  reflex  standard  and  absolve 
me  to  myself.  I  have  my  own  stern  claims  and  perfect 
circle.  It  denies  the  name  of  duty  to  many  offices  that 
are  called  duties.  But  if  I  can  discharge  its  debts  it 
enables  me  to  dispense  with  the  popular  code.  If  any 
one  imagines  that  this  law  is  lax,  let  him  keep  its  com- 
mandment one  day. 

And  truly  it  demands  something  godlike  in  him  who 
has  cast  off  the  common  motives  of  humanity  and  has 
ventured  to  trust  himself  for  a  taskmaster.  High  be 
his  heart,  faithful  his  will,  clear  his  sight,  that  he  may  in 
good  earnest  be  doctrine,  society,  law,  to  himself,  that  a 
simple  purpose  may  be  to  him  as  strong  as  iron  necessity 
is  to  others. 

If  any  man  consider  the  present  aspects  of  what  is 
called  by  distinction  society,  he  will  see  the  need  of  these 
ethics.  The  sinew  and  heart  of  man  seem  to  be  drawn 
out,  and  we  are  become  timorous  desponding  whimperers. 
We  are  afraid  of  truth,  afraid  of  fortune,  afraid  of  death, 
and  afraid  of  each  other.  Our  age  yields  no  great  and 
perfect  persons.  We  want  men  and  women  who  shall 
renovate  life  and  our  social  state,  but  we  see  that  most 
natures  are  insolvent;  cannot  satisfy  their  own  wants, 
have  an  ambition  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  practical 
force,  and  so  do  lean  and  beg  day  and  night  continually. 
Our  housekeeping  is  mendicant,  our  arts,  our  occupations, 
our  marriages,  our  religion  we  have  not  chosen,  but  so- 
ciety has  chosen  for  us.  We  are  parlor  soldiers.  The 
rugged  battle  of  fate,  where  strength  is  born,  we  shun. 

If  our  young  men  miscarry  in  their  first  enterprises  they 
lose  all  heart.  If  the  young  merchant  fails,  men  say  he 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  317 

is  ruined.  If  the  finest  genius  studies  at  one  of  our  col- 
leges, and  is  not  installed  in  an  office  within  one  year 
afterward,  in  the  cities  or  suburbs  of  Boston  or  New  York, 
it  seems  to  his  friends  and  to  himself  that  he  is  right  in 
being  disheartened  and  in  complaining  the  rest  of  his  life. 
A  sturdy  lad  from  New  Hampshire  or  Vermont,  who  in 
turn  tries  all  the  professions,  who  teams  it,  farms  it,  ped- 
dles, keeps  a  school,  preaches,  edits  a  newspaper,  goes  to 
Congress,  buys  a  township,  and  so  forth,  in  successive 
years,  and  always  like  a  cat  falls  on  his  feet,  is  worth  a 
hundred  of  these  city  dolls.  He  walks  abreast  with  his 
days  and  feels  no  shame  in  not  "studying  a  profession/' 
for  he  does  not  postpone  his  life,  but  lives  already.  He 
has  not  one  chance,  but  a  hundred  chances.  Let  a  stoic 
arise  who  shall  reveal  the  resources  of  man  and  tell  men 
they  are  not  leaning  willows,  but  can  and  must  detach 
themselves;  that  with  the  exercise  of  self -trust,  new  powers 
shall  appear;  that  a  man  is  the  word  made  flesh,  born  to 
shed  healing  to  the  nations,  that  he  should  be  ashamed 
of  our  compassion,  and  that  the  moment  he  acts  from 
himself,  tossing  the  laws,  the  books,  idolatries  and  cus- 
toms out  of  the  window, — we  pity  him  no  more  but  thank 
and  revere  him; — and  that  teacher  shall  restore  the  life 
of  man  to  splendor  and  make  his  name  dear  to  all  History. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  a  greater  self-reliance — a  new 
respect  for  the  divinity  in  man — must  work  a  revolution 
in  all  the  offices  and  relations  of  men;  in  their  religion; 
in  their  education;  in  their  pursuits;  their  modes  of 
living;  their  association;  in  their  property;  in  their  spec- 
ulative views. 

1.  In  what  prayers  do  men  allow  themselves!  That 
which  they  call  a  holy  office  is  not  so  much  as  brave  and 
manly.  Prayer  looks  abroad  and  asks  for  some  foreign 
addition  to  come  through  some  foreign  virtue,  and  loses 
itself  in  endless  mazes  of  natural  and  supernatural,  and 


318  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

mediatorial  and  miraculous.  Prayer  that  craves  a  par- 
ticular commodity — anything  less  than  all  good,  is  vicious. 
Prayer  is  the  contemplation  of  the  facts  of  life  from  the 
highest  point  of  view.  It  is  the  soliloquy  of  a  beholding 
and  jubilant  soul.  It  is  the  spirit  of  God  pronouncing 
his  works  good.  But  prayer  as  a  means  to  effect  a  private 
end  is  theft  and  meanness.  It  supposes  dualism  and  not 
unity  in  nature  and  consciousness.  As  soon  as  the  man 
is  at  one  with  God,  he  will  not  beg.  He  will  then  see 
prayer  in  all  action.  The  prayer  of  the  farmer  kneeling 
in  his  field  to  weed  it,  the  prayer  of  the  rower  kneeling 
with  the  stroke  of  his  oar,  are  true  prayers  heard  through- 
out nature,  though  for  cheap  ends.  Caratach,  in  Fletch- 
er's Bonduca,  when  admonished  to  inquire  the  mind  of 
the  god  Audate,  replies, 

His  hidden  meaning  lies  in  our  endeavors; 
Our  valors  are  our  best  gods. 

Another  sort  of  false  prayers  are  our  regrets.  Dis- 
content is  the  want  of  self-reliance:  it  is  infirmity  of  will. 
Regret  calamities  if  you  can  thereby  help  the  sufferer; 
if  not,  attend  your  own  work  and  already  the  evil  begins 
to  be  repaired.  Our  sympathy  is  just  as  base.  We  come 
to  them  who  weep  foolishly  and  sit  down  and  cry  for 
company,  instead  of  imparting  to  them  truth  and  health 
in  rough  electric  shocks,  putting  them  once  more  in  com- 
munication with  the  soul.  The  secret  of  fortune  is  joy 
in  our  hands.  Welcome  evermore  to  gods  and  men  is 
the  self-helping  man.  For  him  all  doors  are  flung  wide. 
Him  all  tongues  greet,  all  honors  crown,  all  eyes  follow 
with  desire.  Our  love  goes  out  to  him  and  embraces 
him  because  he  did  not  need  it.  We  solicitously  and 
apologetically  caress  and  celebrate  him  because  he  held 
on  his  way  and  scorned  our  disapprobation.  The  gods 
love  him  because  men  hated  him.  "To  the  persevering 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  319 

mortal,"    said    Zoroaster,    "the    blessed    Immortals    are 
swift." 

As  men's  prayers  are  a  disease  of  the  will,  so  are  their 
creeds  a  disease  of  the  intellect.  They  say  with  those 
foolish  Israelites,  "Let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest  we  die. 
Speak  thou,  speak  any  man  with  us,  and  we  will  obey."  * 
Everywhere  I  am  bereaved  of  meeting  God  in  my  brother, 
because  he  has  shut  his  own  temple  doors  and  recites 
fables  merely  of  his  brother's,  or  his  brother's  brother's 
God.  Every  new  mind  is  a  new  classification.  If  it 
prove  a  mind  of  uncommon  activity  and  power,  a  Locke,  f 
a  Lavoisier,  a  Hutton,  a  Bentham,  a  Spurzheim,  it  im- 
poses its  classification  on  other  men,  and  lo !  a  new  sys- 
tem. In  proportion  always  to  the  depth  of  the  thought, 
and  so  to  the  number  of  the  objects  it  touches  and  brings 
within  reach  of  the  pupil,  is  his  complacency.  But  chiefly 
is  this  apparent  in  cieeds  and  churches,  which  are  also 
classifications  of  some  powerful  mind  acting  on  the  great 
elemental  thought  of  Duty  and  man's  relation  to  the 
Highest.  Such  is  Calvinism,  Quakerism,  Swedenborgi- 
anism.  The  pupil  takes  the  same  delight  in  subordinating 
everything  to  the  new  terminology  that  a  girl  does  who 
has  just  learned  botany  in  seeing  a  new  earth  and  new 
seasons  thereby.  It  will  happen  for  a  time  that  the 
pupil  will  feel  a  real  debt  to  the  teacher — will  find  his 
intellectual  power  has  grown  by  the  study  of  his  writings. 
This  will  continue  until  he  has  exhausted  his  master's 
mind.  But  in  all  unbalanced  minds  the  classification  is 
idolized,  passes  for  the  end  and  not  for  a  speedily  ex- 
haustible means,  so  that  the  walls  of  the  system  blend  to 
their  eye  in  the  remote  horizon  with  the  walls  of  the  uni- 

*  Exodus,  20, 19. 

t  Locke  and  Bentheim  were  English  philosophers;  Lavoisier  a 
French  chemist  who  discovered  the  composition  of  water;  Hutton 
was  a  Scotch  geologist;  Spurzheim,  a  German  who  put  forth  the 
system  of  phrenology. 


320  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

verse;  the  luminaries  of  heaven  seem  to  them  hung  on 
the  arch  their  master  built.  They  cannot  imagine  how 
you  aliens  have  any  right  to  see — how  you  can  see;  "It 
must  be  somehow  that  you  stole  the  light  from  us." 
They  do  not  yet  perceive  that  light,  unsystematic,  in- 
domitable, will  break  into  any  cabin,  even  into  theirs. 
Let  them  chirp  awhile  and  call  it  their  own.  If  they  are 
honest  and  do  well,  presently  their  neat  new  pinfold  will 
be  too  strait  and  low,  will  crack,  will  lean,  will  rot  and 
vanish,  and  the  immortal  light,  all  young  and  joyful, 
million-orbed,  million-colored,  will  beam  over  the  uni- 
verse as  on  the  first  morning. 

2.  It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  idol  of  Travel- 
ling, the  idol  of  Italy,  of  England,  of  Egypt,  remains  for 
all  educated  Americans.  They  who  made  England,  Italy, 
or  Greece  venerable  in  the  imagination,  did  so  not  by 
rambling  round  creation  as  a  moth  round  a  lamp,  but  by 
sticking  fast  where  they  were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth. 
In  manly  hours  we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place  and  that 
the  merry  men  of  circumstance  should  follow  as  they 
may.  The  soul  is  no  traveller:  the  wise  man  stays  at 
home  with  the  soul,  and  when  his  necessities,  his  duties, 
on  any  occasion  call  him  from  his  house,  or  into  foreign 
lands,  he  is  at  home  still  and  is  not  gadding  abroad  from 
himself,  and  shall  make  men  sensible  by  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  that  he  goes  the  missionary  of  wisdom 
and  virtue,  and  visits  cities  and  men  like  a  sovereign  and 
not  like  an  interloper  or  a  valet. 

I  have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavigation 
of  the  globe  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of  study,  and  benev- 
olence, so  that  the  man  is  first  domesticated,  or  does  not 
go  abroad  with  the  hope  of  finding  somewhat  greater 
than  he  knows.  He  who  travels  to  be  amused  or  to  get 
somewhat  which  he  does  not  carry,  travels  away  from 
himself  and  grows  old  even  in  youth  among  old  things. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  321 

In  Thebes,  in  Palmyra,  his  will  and  mind  have  become 
old  and  dilapidated  as  they.  He  carries  ruins  to  ruins. 

Travelling  is  a  fooPs  paradise.  We  owe  to  our  first 
journeys  the  discovery  that  place  is  nothing.  At  home 
I  dream  that  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  I  can  be  intoxicated 
with  beauty  and  lose  my  sadness.  I  pack  my  trunk, 
embrace  my  friends,  embark  on  the  sea  and  at  last  wake 
up  in  Naples,  and  there  beside  me  is  the  stern  Fact,  the 
sad  self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that  I  fled  from.  I  seek 
the  Vatican  and  the  palaces.  I  affect  to  be  intoxicated 
with  sights  and  suggestions,  but  I  am  not  intoxicated. 
My  giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I  go. 

3.  But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a  symptom 
of  a  deeper  unsoundness  affecting  the  whole  intellectual 
action.  The  intellect  is  vagabond,  and  the  universal 
system  of  education  fosters  restlessness.  Our  minds 
travel  when  our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay  at  home.  We 
imitate;  and  what  is  imitation  but  the  travelling  of  the 
mind?  Our  houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste;  our 
shelves  are  garnished  with  foreign  ornaments;  our  opin- 
ions, our  tastes,  our  whole  minds,  lean,  and  follow  the 
Past  and  the  Distant,  as  the  eyes  of  a  maid  follow  her 
mistress.  The  soul  created  the  arts  wherever  they  have 
flourished.  It  was  in  his  own  mind  that  the  artist  sought 
his  model.  It  was  an  application  of  his  own  thought  to 
the  thing  to  be  done  and  the  conditions  to  be  observed. 
And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the  Gothic  model? 
Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur  of  thought  and  quaint 
expression  are  as  near  to  us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  American 
artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  precise  thing  to 
be  done  by  him,  considering  the  climate,  the  soil;  the 
length  of  the  day,  the  wants  of  the  people,  the  habit  and 
form  of  the  government,  he  will  create  a  house  in  which 
all  these  will  find  themselves  fitted,  and  taste  and  senti- 
ment will  be  satisfied  also. 


322  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own  gift  you 
can  present  every  moment  with  the  cumulative  force  of 
a  whole  life's  cultivation;  but  of  the  adopted  talent  of 
another  you  have  only  an  extemporaneous  half-posses- 
sion. That  which  each  can  do  best,  none  but  his  Maker 
can  teach  him.  No  man  yet  knows  what  it  is,  nor  can, 
till  that  person  has  exhibited  it.  Where  is  the  master 
who  could  have  taught  Shakspeare?  Where  is  the 
master  who  could  have  instructed  Franklin,  or  Washing- 
ton, or  Bacon,  or  Newton?  Every  great  man  is  an 
unique.  The  Scipionism  of  Scipio  is  precisely  that  part 
he  could  not  borrow.  If  anybody  will  tell  me  whom  the 
great  man  imitates  in  the  original  crisis  when  he  per- 
forms a  great  act,  I  will  tell  him  who  else  than  himself 
can  teach  him.  Shakspeare  will  never  be  made  by  the 
study  of  Shakspeare.  Do  that  which  is  assigned  thee 
and  thou  canst  not  hope  too  much  or  dare  too  much. 
There  is  at  this  moment,  there  is  for  me  an  utterance 
bare  and  grand  as  that  of  the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias, 
or  trowel  of  the  Egyptians,  or  the  pen  of  Moses  or  Dante, 
but  different  from  all  these.  Not  possibly  will  the  soul, 
all  rich,  all  eloquent,  with  thousand-cloven  tongue,  deign 
to  repeat  itself;  but  if  I  can  hear  what  these  patriarchs 
say,  surely  I  can  reply  to  them  in  the  same  pitch  of  voice; 
for  the  ear  and  the  tongue  are  two  organs  of  one  nature. 
Dwell  up  there  in  the  simple  and  noble  regions  of  thy  life, 
obey  thy  heart  and  thou  shalt  reproduce  the  Foreworld 
again. 

4.  As  our  Religion,  our  Education,  our  Art  look  abroad, 
so  does  our  spirit  of  society.  All  men  plume  themselves 
on  the  improvement  of  society,  and  no  man  improves. 

Society  never  advances.  It  recedes  as  fast  on  one 
side  as  it  gains  on  the  other.  Its  progress  is  only  apparent, 
like  the  workers  of  a  treadmill.  It  undergoes  continual 
changes;  it  is  barbarous,  it  is  civilized,  it  is  christianized, 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  323 

it  is  rich,  it  is  scientific;  but  this  change  is  not  amelioration. 
For  everything  that  is  given  something  is  taken.  Society 
acquires  new  arts  and  loses  old  instincts.  What  a  con- 
trast between  the  well-clad,  reading,  writing,  thinking 
American,  with  a  watch,  a  pencil  and  a  bill  of  exchange 
in  his  pocket,  and  the  naked  New  Zealander,  whose  prop- 
erty is  a  club,  a  spear,  a  mat  and  an  undivided  twentieth 
of  a  shed  to  sleep  under.  But  compare  the  health  of  the 
two  men  and  you  shall  see  that  his  aboriginal  strength 
the  white  man  has  lost.  If  the  traveller  tell  us  truly, 
strike  the  savage  with  a  broadax  and  in  a  day  or  two 
the  flesh  shall  unite  and  heal  as  if  you  struck  the  blow 
into  soft  pitch,  and  the  same  blow  shall  send  the  white 
to  his  grave. 

The  civilized  man  has  built  a  coach,  but  has  lost  the 
use  of  his  feet.  He  is  supported  on  crutches,  but  lacks 
so  much  support  of  muscle.  He  has  got  a  fine  Geneva 
watch,  but  he  has  lost  the  skill  to  tell  the  hour  by  the  sun. 
A  Greenwich  nautical  almanac  he  has,  and  so  being  sure 
of  the  information  when  he  wants  it,  the  man  in  the  street 
does  not  know  a  star  in  the  sky.  The  solstice  he  does 
not  observe;  the  equinox  he  knows  as  little;  and  the  whole 
bright  calendar  of  the  year  is  without  a  dial  in  his  mind. 
His  note-books  impair  his  memory:  his  libraries  overload 
his  wit;  the  insurance-office  increases  the  number  of  acci- 
dents; and  it  may  be  a  question  whether  machinery  does 
not  encumber;  whether  we  have  not  lost  by  refinement 
some  energy,  by  a  Christianity  intrenched  in  establish- 
ments and  forms,  some  vigor  of  wild  virtue.  For  every 
Stoic  was  a  Stoic;  but  in  Christendom  where  is  the  Chris- 
tian? 

There  is  no  more  deviation  in  the  moral  standard  than 
in  the  standard  of  height  or  bulk.  No  greater  men  are 
now  than  ever  were.  A  singular  equality  may  be  ob- 
served between  the  great  men  of  the  first  and  of  the  last 


324  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

ages;  nor  can  all  the  science,  art,  religion,  and  philosophy 
of  the  nineteenth  century  avail  to  educate  greater  men 
than  Plutarch's*  heroes,  three  or  four  and  twenty  cen- 
turies ago.  Not  in  time  is  the  race  progressive.  Phocion, 
Socrates,  Anaxagoras,  Diogenes,  are  great  men,  but  they 
leave  no  class.  He  who  is  really  of  their  class  will  not  be 
called  by  their  name,  but  be  wholly  his  own  man,  and  in 
his  turn  the  founder  of  a  sect.  The  arts  and  inventions 
of  each  period  are  only  its  costume  and  do  not  invigorate 
men.  The  harm  of  the  improved  machinery  may  com- 
pensate its  good.  Hudson  and  Behring  accomplished  so 
much  in  their  fishing-boats  as  to  astonish  Parry  and 
Franklin,  whose  equipment  exhausted  the  resources  of 
science  and  art.  Galileo,  with  an  opera-glass,  discovered 
a  more  splendid  series  of  facts  than  any  one  since.  Co- 
lumbus found  the  New  World  in  an  undecked  boat.  It 
is  curious  to  see  the  periodical  disuse  and  perishing  of 
means  and  machinery  which  were  introduced  with  loud 
laudation  a  few  years  or  centuries  before.  The  great 
genius  returns  to  essential  man.  We  reckoned  the  im- 
provements of  the  art  of  war  among  the  triumphs  of  sci- 
ence, and  yet  Napoleon  conquered  Europe  by  the  bivouac, 
which  consisted  of  falling  back  on  naked  valor  and  dis- 
encumbering it  of  all  aids.  The  Emperor  held  it  impos- 
sible to  make  a  perfect  army,  says  Las  Cases,  "without 
abolishing  our  arms,  magazines,  commissaries  and  car- 
riages, until,  in  imitation  of  the  Roman  custom,  the  sol- 
dier should  receive  his  supply  of  corn,  grind  it  in  his  hand- 
mill  and  bake  his  bread  himself." 

Society  is  a  wave.  The  wave  moves  onward,  but  the 
water  of  which  it  is  composed  does  not.  The  same  par- 
ticle does  not  rise  from  the  valley  to  the  ridge.  Its  unity 

*  Plutarch,  a  Greek  historian  who  wrote  the  lives  of  illustrious 
Greeks  and  Romans.  The  names  following  are  those  of  great  states- 
men and  philosophers  of  whom  he  wrote. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  325 

is  only  phenomenal.  The  persons  who  make  up  a  nation 
to-day,  next  year  die,  and  their  experience  dies  with  them. 
And  so  the  reliance  on  Property,  including  the  reliance 
on  governments  which  protect  it,  is  the  want  of  self- 
reliance.  Men  have  looked  away  from  themselves  and 
at  things  so  long  that  they  have  come  to  esteem  what  they 
call  the  soul's  progress,  namely,  the  religious,  learned  and 
civil  institutions,  as  guards  of  property,  and  they  deprecate 
assaults  on  these,  because  they  feel  them  to  be  assaults 
on  property.  They  measure  their  esteem  of  each  other 
by  what  each  has,  and  not  by  what  each  is.  But  a  culti- 
vated man  becomes  ashamed  of  his  property,  ashamed  of 
what  he  has,  out  of  new  respect  for  his  being.  Especially 
he  hates  what  he  has  if  he  see  that  it  is  accidental,  came 
to  him  by  inheritance,  or  gift,  or  crime;  then  he  feels 
that  it  is  not  having;  it  does  not  belong  to  him,  has  no 
root  in  him,  and  merely  lies  there  because  no  revolution 
or  no  robber  takes  it  away.  But  that  which  a  man  is, 
does  always  by  necessity  acquire,  and  what  the  man 
acquires,  is  permanent  and  living  property,  which  does 
not  wait  the  beck  of  rulers,  or  mobs,  or  revolutions,  or 
fire,  or  storm,  or  bankruptcies,  but  perpetually  renews 
itself  wherever  the  man  is  put.  "Thy  lot  or  portion  of 
life,"  said  the  Caliph  Ali,  "is  seeking  after  thee;  there- 
fore be  at  rest  from  seeking  after  it."  Our  dependence 
on  these  foreign  goods  leads  us  to  our  slavish  respect  for 
numbers.  The  political  parties  meet  in  numerous  con- 
ventions; the  greater  the  concourse  and  with  each  new 
uproar  of  announcement,  The  delegation  from  Essex! 
The  Democrats  from  New  Hampshire !  The  Whigs  of 
Maine !  the  young  patriot  feels  himself  stronger  than  be- 
fore by  a  new  thousand  of  eyes  and  arms.  In  like  man- 
ner the  reformers  summon  conventions  and  vote  and 
resolve  in  multitude.  But  not  so  O  friends !  will  the  God 
deign  to  enter  and  inhabit  you,  but  by  a  method  precisely 


326  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

the  reverse.  It  is  only  as  a  man  puts  off  from  himself 
all  external  support  and  stands  alone  that  I  see  him  to 
be  strong  and  to  prevail.  He  is  weaker  by  every  recruit 
to  his  banner.  Is  not  a  man  better  than  a  town?  Ask 
nothing  of  men,  and,  in  the  endless  mutation,  thou  only 
firm  column  must  presently  appear  the  upholder  of  all 
that  surrounds  thee.  He  who  knows  that  power  is  in 
the  soul,  that  he  is  weak  only  because  he  has  looked  for 
good  out  of  him  and  elsewhere,  and,  so  perceiving,  throws 
himself  unhesitatingly  on  his  thought,  instantly  rights 
himself,  stands  in  the  erect  position,  commands  his  limbs, 
works  miracles;  just  as  a  man  who  stands  on  his  feet  is 
stronger  than  a  man  who  stands  on  his  head. 

So  use  all  that  is  called  Fortune.  Most  men  gamble 
with  her,  and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as  her  wheel  rolls. 
But  do  thou  leave  as  unlawful  these  winnings,  and  deal 
with  Cause  and  Effect,  the  chancellors  of  God.  In  the 
Will  work  and  acquire,  and  thou  hast  chained  the  wheel 
of  Chance,  and  shalt  always  drag  her  after  thee.  A 
political  victory,  a  rise  of  rents,  the  recovery  of  your  sick 
or  the  return  of  your  absent  friend,  or  some  other  quite 
external  event  raises  your  spirits,  and  you  think  good 
days  are  preparing  for  you.  Do  not  believe  it.  It  can 
never  be  so.  Nothing  can  bring  you  peace  but  yourself. 
Nothing  can  bring  you  peace  but  the  triumph  of  principles. 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 


John  Galsworthy  (1867 ),  one  of  the  most  significant 

of  English  writers  of  to-day,  was  born  at  Coombe,  Surrey, 
of  an  old  English  family,  and  was  educated  at  Harrow 
and  at  Oxford.  After  several  years  spent  in  travel,  he  re- 
turned to  England  and  began  his  literary  work.  He  is 
noted  as  a  novelist,  dramatist,  and  essayist.  His  novels 
deal  with  contemporary  English  life;  the  best  known  of 
these  are  The  Man  of  Property,  Fraternity,  The  Dark  Flower, 
The  Freelands,  and  Saint's  Progress.  He  visited  America 
in  1918,  delivering  lectures  on  literature,  which  were  pub- 
lished as  Addresses  in  America.  He  is  among  the  success- 
ful dramatists  of  to-day.  His  plays  often  present  some 
problem  of  the  time,  as  Strife,  which  dramatizes  the  con- 
flict between  employer  and  employee,  with  a  strike  as  the 
chief  incident;  or  Justice,  which  deals  with  our  methods 
of  punishment.  Other  plays  are:  The  Silver  Box,  Joy, 
The  Little  Dream,  The  Pigeon,  The  Eldest  Son,  The  Fu- 
gitive, The  Mob,  A  Bit  o'  Love,  The  Skin  Game.  Many  of 
these  have  been  produced  in  America.  His  essays  in- 
clude four  volumes,  A  Motley,  The  Inn  of  Tranquillity, 
A  Sheaf,  and  Another  Sheaf. 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 
(From  Another  Shtaf) 

On  the  mutual  understanding  of  each  other  by  Britons 
and  Americans  the  future  happiness  of  nations  depends 
more  than  on  any  other  world  cause. 

I  have  never  held  a  whole-hearted  brief  for  the  British 
character.  There  is  a  lot  of  good  in  it,  but  much  which 
is  repellent.  It  has  a  kind  of  deliberate  unattractive- 
ness,  setting  out  on  its  journey  with  the  words:  "Take 
me  or  leave  me."  One  may  respect  a  person  of  this  sort, 
but  it  is  difficult  either  to  know  or  to  like  him.  I  am 
told  that  an  American  officer  said  recently  to  a  British 
staff  officer  in  a  friendly  voice:  "So  we're  going  to  clean 
up  Brother  Boche  together ! "  and  the  British  staff  officer 
replied  "Really!"  No  wonder  Americans  sometimes 
say:  "I've  got  no  use  for  those  fellows." 

The  world  is  consecrate  to  strangeness  and  discovery, 
and  the  attitude  of  mind  concreted  in  that  "Really!" 
seems  unforgivable,  till  one  rememoers  that  it  is  manner 
rather  than  matter  which  divides  the  hearts  of  American 
and  Briton. 

In  a  huge,  still  half-developed  country,  where  every 
kind  of  national  type  and  habit  comes  to  run  a  new  thread 
into  the  rich  tapestry  of  American  life  and  thought, 
people  must  find  it  almost  impossible  to  conceive  the  life 
of  a  little  old  island  where  traditions  persist  generation 
after  generation  without  anything  to  break  them  up; 
where  blood  remains  undoctored  by  new  strains;  de- 
meanor becomes  crystallized  for  lack  of  contrasts*  and 

329 


330  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

manner  gets  set  like  a  plaster  mask.  The  English  man- 
ner of  to-day,  of  what  are  called  the  classes,  is  the  growth 
of  only  a  century  or  so.  There  was  probably  nothing  at 
all  like  it  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth  or  even  of  Charles  II. 
The  English  manner  was  still  racy  when  the  inhabitants 
of  Virginia,  as  we  are  told,  sent  over  to  ask  that  there 
might  be  despatched  to  them  some  hierarchical  assistance 

for  the  good  of  their  souls,  and  were  answered:  "D n 

your  souls,  grow  tobacco!"  The  English  manner  of 
to-day  could  not  even  have  come  into  its  own  when  that 
epitaph  of  a  lady,  quoted  somewhere  by  Gilbert  Murray, 
was  written:  "Bland,  passionate,  and  deeply  religious, 
she  was  second  cousin  to  the  Earl  of  Lei  trim;  of  such  are 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven."  About  that  gravestone  motto 
was  a  certain  lack  of  the  self-consciousness  which  is  now 
the  foremost  characteristic  of  the  English  manner. 

But  this  British  self-consciousness  is  no  mere  fluffy 
gaucherie*  it  is  our  special  form  of  what  Germans  would 
call  "Kultur."  Behind  every  manifestation  of  thought 
or  emotion  the  Briton  retains  control  of  self,  and  is  think- 
ing: "That's  all  I'll  let  them  see";  even:  "That's  all  I'll 
let  myself  feel."  This  stoicism  is  good  in  its  refusal  to 
be  foundered;  bad  in  that  it  fosters  a  narrow  outlook; 
starves  emotion,  spontaneity,  and  frank  sympathy;  de- 
stroys grace  and  what  one  may  describe  roughly  as  the 
lovable  side  of  personality.  The  English  hardly  ever  say 
just  what  comes  into  their  heads.  What  we  call  "good 
form,"  the  unwritten  law  which  governs  certain  classes  of 
the  Briton,  savors  of  the  dull  and  glacial;  but  there  lurks 
within  it  a  core  of  virtue.  It  has  grown  up  like  callous 
shell  round  two  fine  ideals — suppression  of  the  ego  lest 
it  trample  on  the  corns  of  other  people,  and  exaltation  of 
the  maxim:  "Deeds  before  words."  Good  form,  like  any 
other  religion,  starts  well  with  some  ethical  truth,  but 
*  Gaucherie,  awkwardness,  stiffness. 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  331 

soon  gets  commonized  and  petrified  till  we  can  hardly 
trace  its  origin,  and  watch  with  surprise  its  denial  and 
contradiction  of  the  root  idea. 

Without  doubt  good  form  had  become  a  kind  of  disease 
in  England.  A  French  friend  told  me  how  he  witnessed 
in  a  Swiss  hotel  the  meeting  between  an  Englishwoman 
and  her  son,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  two  years;  she 
was  greatly  affected — by  the  fact  that  he  had  not  brought 
a  dinner  jacket.  The  best  manners  are  no  "manners," 
or  at  all  events  no  mannerisms;  but  many  Britons  who 
have  even  attained  to  this  perfect  purity  are  yet  not  free 
from  the  paralytic  effects  of  "good  form";  are  still  self- 
conscious  in  the  depths  of  their  souls,  and  never  do  or 
say  a  thing  without  trying  not  to  show  what  they  are 
feeling.  All  this  guarantees  a  certain  decency  in  life; 
but  in  intimate  intercourse  with  people  of  other  nations 
who  have  not  this  particular  cult  of  suppression,  we  Eng- 
lish disappoint,  and  jar,  and  often  irritate.  Nations  have 
their  differing  forms  of  snobbery.  At  one  time  the  Eng- 
lish all  wanted  to  be  second  cousins  to  the  Earl  of  Lei  trim, 
like  that  lady  bland  and  passionate.  Nowadays  it  is  not 
so  simple.  The  Earl  of  Leitrim  has  become  etherealized. 
We  no  longer  care  how  a  fellow  is  born  so  long  as  he  be- 
haves as  the  Earl  of  Leitrim  would  have,  never  makes 
himself  conspicuous  or  ridiculous,  never  shows  too  much 
what  he's  really  feeling,  never  talks  of  what  he's  going 
to  do,  and  always  "plays  the  game."  The  cult  is  centred 
in  our  public  schools*  and  universities. 

At  a  very  typical  and  honored  old  public  school  the 
writer  of  this  essay  passed  on  the  whole  a  happy  time; 
but  what  a  curious  life,  educationally  speaking!  We 
lived  rather  like  young  Spartans;  and  were  not  encour- 

*  Public  school,  in  England,  means  a  private  school  where  the  sons 
of  the  well-to-do  and  the  nobility  prepare  for  college.  They  corre- 
spond to  Lawrenceville,  Exeter,  and  other  academies  in  America. 


332  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

aged  to  think,  imagine,  or  see  anything  that  we  learned 
in  relation  to  life  at  large.  It's  very  difficult  to  teach 
boys,  because  their  chief  object  in  life  is  not  to  be  taught 
anything,  but  I  should  say  we  were  crammed,  not  taught 
at  all.  Living  as  we  did  the  herd-life  of  boys  with  little 
or  no  intrusion  from  our  elders,  and  they  men  who  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  same  way  as  ourselves,  we  were 
debarred  from  any  real  interest  in  philosophy,  history, 
art,  literature  and  music,  or  any  advancing  notions  in 
social  life  or  politics.  I  speak  of  the  generality,  not  of  the 
few  black  swans  among  us.  We  were  reactionaries  almost 
to  a  boy.  I  remember  one  summer  term  Gladstone  came 
down  to  speak  to  us,  and  we  repaired  to  the  Speech  Room 
with  white  collars  and  dark  hearts,  muttering  what  we 
would  do  to  that  Grand  Old  Man  if  we  could  have  our 
way.  But  he  contrived  to  charm  us,  after  all,  till  we 
cheered  him  vociferously.  In  that  queer  life  we  had  all 
sorts  of  unwritten  rules  of  suppression.  You  must  turn 
up  your  trousers;  must  not  go  out  with  your  umbrella 
rolled.  Your  hat  must  be  worn  tilted  forward;  you  must 
not  walk  more  than  two  abreast  till  you  reached  a  cer- 
tain form,  nor  be  enthusiastic  about  anything,  except 
such  a  supreme  matter  as  a  drive  over  the  pavilion  at 
cricket,  or  a  run  the  whole  length  of  the  ground  at  foot- 
ball. You  must  not  talk  about  yourself  or  your  home 
people,  and  for  any  punishment  you  must  assume  com- 
plete indifference. 

I  dwell  on  these  trivialities  because  every  year  thou- 
sands of  British  boys  enter  these  mills  which  grind  ex- 
ceeding small,  and  because  these  boys  constitute  in  after- 
life the  great  majority  of  the  official,  military,  academic, 
professional,  and  a  considerable  proportion  of  the  busi- 
ness classes  of  Great  Britain.  They  become  the  English- 
men who  say:  "Really!"  and  they  are  for  the  most  part 
the  Englishmen  who  travel  and  reach  America.  The 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  333 

great  defense  I  have  always  heard  put  up  for  our  public 
schools  is  that  they  form  character.  As  oatmeal  is  sup- 
posed to  form  bone  in  the  bodies  of  Scotsmen,  so  our 
public  schools  are  supposed  to  form  good,  sound  moral 
fibre  in  British  boys.  And  there  is  much  in  this  plea. 
The  life  does  make  boys  enduring,  self-reliant,  good- 
tempered  and  honorable,  but  it  most  carefully  endeavors 
to  destroy  all  original  sin  of  individuality,  spontaneity, 
and  engaging  freakishness.  It  implants,  moreover,  in  the 
great  majority  of  those  who  have  lived  it  the  mental  atti- 
tude of  that  swell,  who  when  asked  where  he  went  for  his 
hats,  replied:  "Blank's,  of  course.  Is  there  another  fel- 
low's?" 

To  know  all  is  to  excuse  all — to  know  all  about  the 
bringing  up  of  English  public  school  boys  makes  one 
excuse  much.  The  atmosphere  and  tradition  of  those 
places  is  extraordinarily  strong,  and  persists  through  all 
modern  changes.  Thirty-seven  years  have  gone  since  I 
was  a  new  boy,  but  cross-examining  a  young  nephew  who 
left  not  long  ago,  I  found  almost  precisely  the  same  fea- 
tures and  conditions.  The  war,  which  has  changed  so 
much  of  our  social  life,  will  have  some,  but  no  very  great, 
effect  on  this  particular  institution.  The  boys  still  go 
there  from  the  same  kind  of  homes  and  preparatory 
schools  and  come  under  the  same  kind  of  masters.  And 
the  traditional  unemotionalism,  the  cult  of  a  dry  and 
narrow  stoicism,  is  rather  fortified  than  diminished  by 
the  times  we  live  in. 

Our  universities,  on  the  other  hand,  are  now  mere 
ghosts  of  their  old  selves.  At  a  certain  old  college  in 
Oxford,  last  term,  they  had  only  two  English  students. 
In  the  chapel  under  the  Joshua  Reynolds  window,  through 
which  the  sun  was  shining,  hung  a  long  "roll  of  honor,"  a 
hundred  names  and  more.  In  the  college  garden  an  open- 
air  hospital  was  ranged  under  the  old  city  wall,  where  we 


334  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

used  to  climb  and  go  wandering  in  the  early  summer 
mornings  after  some  all-night  spree.  Down  on  the  river 
the  empty  college  barges  lay  void  of  life.  From  the  top 
of  one  of  them  an  aged  custodian  broke  into  words:  "  Ah ! 
Oxford'll  never  be  the  same  again  in  my  time.  Why, 
who's  to  teach  'em  rowin'  ?  When  we  do  get  undergrads 
again,  who's  to  teach  'em?  All  the  old  ones  gone,  killed, 
wounded  and  that.  No!  Rowin'll  never  be  the  same 
again — not  in  my  time."  That  was  the  tragedy  of  the 
war  for  him.  Our  universities  will  recover  faster  than 
he  thinks,  and  resume  the  care  of  our  particular  "Kultur," 
and  cap  the  products  of  our  public  schools  with  the  Ox- 
ford accent  and  the  Oxford  manner. 

An  acute  critic  tells  me  that  Americans  reading  such 
deprecatory  words  as  these  by  an  Englishman  about  his 
country's  institutions  would  say  that  this  is  precisely  an 
instance  of  what  an  American  means  by  the  Oxford  man- 
ner. Americans  whose  attitude  toward  their  own  coun- 
try is  that  of  a  lover  to  his  lady  or  a  child  to  its  mother, 
cannot — he  says — understand  how  Englishmen  can  be 
critical  of  their  own  country,  and  yet  love  her.  Well, 
the  Englishman's  attitude  to  his  country  is  that  of  a  man 
to  himself,  and  the  way  he  runs  her  down  is  but  a  part 
of  that  special  English  bone-deep  self-consciousness. 
Englishmen  (the  writer  amongst  them)  love  their  country 
as  much  as  the  French  love  France  and  the  Americans 
America;  but  she  is  so  much  a  part  of  them  that  to  speak 
well  of  her  is  like  speaking  well  of  themselves,  which  they 
have  been  brought  up  to  regard  as  "bad  form."  When 
Americans  hear  Englishmen  speaking  critically  of  their 
own  country,  let  them  note  it  for  a  sign  of  complete 
identification  with  that  country  rather  than  of  detach- 
ment from  it.  But  on  the  whole  it  must  be  admitted 
that  English  universities  have  a  broadening  influence  on 
the  material  which  comes  to  them  so  set  and  narrow. 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  335 

They  do  a  little  to  discover  for  their  children  that  there 
are  many  points  of  view,  and  much  which  needs  an  open 
mind  in  this  world.  They  have  not  precisely  a  demo- 
cratic influence,  but  taken  by  themselves  they  would  not 
be  inimical  to  democracy.  And  when  the  war  is  over 
they  will  surely  be  still  broader  in  philosophy  and  teach- 
ing. Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  see  vanish  all  that  is 
old,  and  has,  as  it  were,  the  virginia-creeper,  the  wis- 
taria bloom  of  age  upon  it;  there  is  a  beauty  in  age  and  a 
health  in  tradition,  ill  dispensed  with.  What  is  hateful 
in  age  is  its  lack  of  understanding  and  of  sympathy;  in  a 
word — its  intolerance.  Let  us  hope  this  wind  of  change 
may  sweep  out  and  sweeten  the  old  places  of  our  country, 
sweep  away  the  cobwebs  and  the  dust,  our  narrow  ways 
of  thought,  our  mannikinisms.  But  those  who  hate  in- 
tolerance dare  not  be  intolerant  with  the  foibles  of  age; 
we  should  rather  see  them  as  comic,  and  gently  laugh 
them  out.  I  pretend  to  no  proper  knowledge  of  the 
American  people;  but,  though  amongst  them  there  are 
doubtless  pockets  of  fierce  prejudice,  I  have  on  the  whole 
the  impression  of  a  wide  and  tolerant  spirit.  To  that 
spirit  one  would  appeal  when  it  comes  to  passing  judgment 
on  the  educated  Briton.  He  may  be  self-sufficient,  but 
he  has  grit;  and  at  bottom  grit  is  what  Americans  appre- 
ciate more  than  anything.  If  the  motto  of  the  old  Ox- 
ford college,  "Manners  makyth  man,"  were  true,  one 
would  often  be  sorry  for  the  Briton.  But  his  manners  do 
not  make  him;  they  mar  him.  His  goods  are  all  absent 
from  the  shop-window;  he  is  not  a  man  of  the  world  in 
the  wider  meaning  of  that  expression.  And  there  is,  of 
course,  a  particularly  noxious  type  of  travelling  Briton, 
who  does  his  best,  unconsciously,  to  deflower  his  coun- 
try wherever  he  goes.  Selfish,  coarse-fibred,  loud-voiced, 
—the  sort  which  thanks  God  he  is  a  Briton — I  suppose 
because  nobody  else  will  do  it  for  him. 


336  THE  REFLECTIVE   ESSAY 

We  live  in  times  when  patriotism  is  exalted  above  all 
other  virtues,  because  there  happen  to  lie  before  the  pa- 
triotic tremendous  chances  for  the  display  of  courage  and 
self-sacrifice.  Patriotism  ever  has  that  advantage,  as 
the  world  is  now  constituted;  but  patriotism  and  provin- 
cialism are  sisters  under  the  skin,  and  they  who  can  only 
see  bloom  on  the  plumage  of  their  own  kind,  who  prefer 
the  bad  points  of  their  countrymen  to  the  good  points  of 
foreigners,  merely  write  themselves  down  blind  of  an  eye, 
and  panderers  to  herd  feeling.  America  is  advantaged 
in  this  matter.  She  lives  so  far  away  from  other  nations 
that  she  might  well  be  excused  for  thinking  herself  the 
only  people  in  the  world;  but  in  the  many  strains  of 
blood  which  go  to  make  up  America  there  is  as  yet  a 
natural  corrective  to  the  narrower  kind  of  patriotism. 
America  has  vast  spaces  and  many  varieties  of  type  and 
climate,  and  life  to  her  is  still  a  great  adventure.  Amer- 
icans have  their  own  form  of  self-absorption,  but  seem 
free  as  yet  from  the  special  competitive  self-centrement 
which  has  been  forced  on  Britons  through  long  centuries 
by  countless  continental  rivalries  and  wars.  Insularity 
was  driven  into  the  very  bones  of  our  people  by  the  gen- 
eration-long wars  of  Napoleon.  A  distinguished  French 
writer,  Andre  Chevrillon,  whose  book*  may  be  com- 
mended to  any  one  who  wishes  to  understand  British 
peculiarities,  used  these  words  in  a  recent  letter:  "You 
English  are  so  strange  to  us  French,  you  are  so  utterly 
different  from  any  other  people  in  the  world."  Yes! 
We  are  a  lonely  race.  Deep  in  our  hearts,  I  think,  we 
feel  that  only  the  American  people  could  ever  really 
understand  us.  And  being  extraordinarily  self-conscious, 
perverse,  and  proud,  we  do  our  best  to  hide  from  Ameri- 
cans that  we  have  any  such  feeling.  It  would  distress 
the  average  Briton  to  confess  that  he  wanted  to  be  under- 
*England  and  the  War.  Hodder  &  Stoughton. 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  33V 

stood,  had  anything  so  natural  as  a  craving  for  fellowship 
or  for  being  liked.  We  are  a  weird  people,  though  we 
seem  so  commonplace.  In  looking  at  photographs  of 
British  types  among  photographs  of  other  European  na- 
tionalities, one  is  struck  by  something  which  is  in  no 
other  of  those  races — exactly  as  if  we  had  an  extra  skin; 
as  if  the  British  animal  had  been  tamed  longer  than  the 
rest.  And  so  he  has.  His  political,  social,  legal  life  was 
fixed  long  before  that  of  any  other  Western  country. 
He  was  old,  though  not  mouldering,  before  the  May- 
flower touched  American  shores  and  brought  there  ava- 
tars, grave  and  civilized  as  ever  founded  nation.  There 
is  something  touching  and  terrifying  about  our  character, 
about  the  depth  at  which  it  keeps  its  real  yearnings,  about 
the  perversity  with  which  it  disguises  them,  and  its  in- 
ability to  show  its  feelings.  We  are,  deep  down,  under 
all  our  lazy  mentality,  the  most  combative  and  competi- 
tive race  in  the  world,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  the 
American.  This  is  at  once  a  spiritual  link  with  America, 
and  yet  one  of  the  great  barriers  to  friendship  between 
the  two  peoples.  We  are  not  sure  whether  we  are  better 
men  than  Americans.  Whether  we  are  really  better  than 
French,  Germans,  Russians,  Italians,  Chinese,  or  any 
other  race  is,  of  course,  more  than  a  question;  but  those 
peoples  are  all  so  different  from  us  that  we  are  bound,  I 
suppose,  secretly  to  consider  ourselves  superior.  But 
between  Americans  and  ourselves,  under  all  differences, 
there  is  some  mysterious  deep  kinship  which  causes  us  to 
doubt  and  makes  us  irritable,  as  if  we  were  continually 
being  tickled  by  that  question:  Now  am  I  really  a  better 
man  than  he?  Exactly  what  proportion  of  American 
blood  at  this  time  of  day  is  British,  I  know  not;  but 
enough  to  make  us  definitely  cousins — always  an  awkward 
relationship.  We  see  in  Americans  a  sort  of  image  of 
ourselves;  feel  near  enough,  yet  far  enough,  to  criticise 


338  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

and  carp  at  the  points  of  difference.  It  is  as  though  a 
man  went  out  and  encountered,  in  the  street,  what  he 
thought  for  the  moment  was  himself,  and,  wounded  in 
his  amour  propre,*  instantly  began  to  disparage  the  appear- 
ance of  that  fellow.  Probably  community  of  language 
rather  than  of  blood  accounts  for  our  sense  of  kinship, 
for  a  common  means  of  expression  cannot  but  mould 
thought  and  feeling  into  some  kind  of  unity.  One  can 
hardly  overrate  the  intimacy  which  a  common  literature 
brings.  The  lives  of  great  Americans,  Washington  and 
Franklin,  Lincoln  and  Lee  and  Grant,  are  unsealed  for 
us,  just  as  to  Americans  are  the  lives  of  Marlborough  and 
Nelson,  Pitt  and  Gladstone  and  Gordon.  Longfellow 
and  Whittier  and  Whitman  can  be  read  by  the  British 
child  as  simply  as  Burns  and  Shelley  and  Keats.  Emer- 
son and  William  James  are  no  more  difficult  to  us  than 
Darwin  and  Spencer  to  Americans.  Without  an  effort 
we  rejoice  in  Hawthorne  and  Mark  Twain,  Henry  James 
and  Howells,  as  Americans  can  in  Dickens  and  Thackeray, 
Meredith  and  Thomas  Hardy.  And,  more  than  all, 
Americans  own  with  ourselves  all  literature  in  the  English 
tongue  before  the  Mayflower  sailed;  Chaucer  and  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare,  Raleigh,  Ben  Jonson,  and  the  authors 
of  the  English  Bible  Version  are  their  spiritual  ancestors 
as  much  as  ever  they  are  ours.  The  tie  of  language  is 
all-powerful — for  language  is  the  food  formative  of  minds. 
A  volume  could  be  written  on  the  formation  of  character 
by  literary  humor  alone.  The  American  and  Briton, 
especially  the  British  townsman,  have  a  kind  of  bone- 
deep  defiance  of  Fate,  a  readiness  for  anything  which 
may  turn  up,  a  dry  wry  smile  under  the  blackest  sky,  and 
an  individual  way  of  looking  at  things  which  nothing  can 
shake.  Americans  and  Britons  both,  we  must  and  will 
think  for  ourselves,  and  know  why  we  do  a  thing  before 
*  Amour  propre,  self  -love,  vanity. 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  339 

we  do  it.  We  have  that  ingrained  respect  for  the  indi- 
vidual conscience  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  free  insti- 
tutions. Some  years  before  the  war  an  intelligent  and 
cultivated  Austrian,  who  had  lived  long  in  England,  was 
asked  for  his  opinion  of  the  British.  "In  many  ways/' 
he  said,  "I  think  you  are  inferior  to  us;  but  one  great 
thing  I  have  noticed  about  you  which  we  have  not.  You 
think  and  act  and  speak  for  yourselves."  If  he  had 
passed  those  years  in  America  instead  of  in  England  he 
must  needs  have  pronounced  the  same  judgment  of 
Americans.  Free  speech,  of  course,  like  every  form  of 
freedom,  goes  in  danger  of  its  life  in  war-time.  The  other 
day,  in  Russia,  an  Englishman  came  on  a  street  meeting 
shortly  after  the  first  revolution  had  begun.  An  ex- 
tremist was  addressing  the  gathering  and  telling  them 
that  they  were  fools  to  go  on  fighting,  that  they  ought 
to  refuse  and  go  home,  and  so  forth.  The  crowd  grew 
angry,  and  some  soldiers  were  for  making  a  rush  at  him; 
but  the  chairman,  a  big,  burly  peasant,  stopped  them 
with  these  words:  "Brothers,  you  know  that  our  country 
is  now  a  country  of  free  speech.  We  must  listen  to  this 
man,  we  must  let  him  say  anything  he  will.  But,  brothers, 
when  he's  finished,  we'll  bash  his  head  in!" 

I  cannot  assert  that  either  Britons  or  Americans  are 
incapable  in  tunes  like  these  of  a  similar  interpretation 
of  "free  speech."  Things  have  been  done  in  our  coun- 
try, and  will  be  done  in  America,  which  should  make  us 
blush.  But  so  strong  is  the  free  instinct  in  both  countries 
that  some  vestiges  of  it  will  survive  even  this  war,  for 
democracy  is  a  sham  unless  it  means  the  preservation 
and  development  of  this  instinct  of  thinking  for  oneself 
throughout  a  people.  "Government  of  the  people,  by 
the  people,  for  the  people"  means  nothing  unless  indi- 
viduals keep  their  consciences  unfettered  and  think  freely. 
Accustom  people  to  be  nose-led  and  spoon-fed,  and  de- 


340  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

mocracy  is  a  mere  pretense.  The  measure  of  democracy 
is  the  measure  of  the  freedom  and  sense  of  individual  re- 
sponsibility in  its  humblest  citizens.  And  democracy — 
I  say  it  with  solemnity — has  yet  to  prove  itself. 

A  scientist,  Dr.  Spurrell,  in  a  recent  book,  Man  and 
His  Forerunners,  diagnoses  the  growth  of  civilizations 
somewhat  as  follows:  A  civilization  begins  with  the  en- 
slavement by  some  hardy  race  of  a  tame  race  living  a 
tame  life  in  more  congenial  natural  surroundings.  It  is 
built  up  on  slavery,  and  attains  its  maximum  vitality  in 
conditions  little  removed  therefrom.  Then,  as  individual 
freedom  gradually  grows,  disorganization  sets  in  and  the 
civilization  slowly  dissolves  away  in  anarchy.  Dr.  Spur- 
rell does  not  dogmatize  about  our  present  civilization, 
but  suggests  that  it  will  probably  follow  the  civilizations 
of  the  past  into  dissolution.  I  am  not  convinced  of  that, 
because  of  certain  factors  new  to  the  history  of  man. 
Recent  discoveries  are  unifying  the  world;  such  old  iso- 
lated swoops  of  race  on  race  are  not  now  possible.  In  our 
great  industrial  states,  it  is  true,  a  new  form  of  slavery 
has  arisen,  but  not  of  man  by  man,  rather  of  man  by 
machines.  Moreover,  all  past  civilizations  have  been 
more  or  less  Southern,  and  subject  to  the  sapping  influ- 
ence of  the  sun.  Modern  civilization  is  essentially  North- 
ern. The  individualism,  however,  which,  according  to 
Dr.  Spurrell,  dissolved  the  empires  of  the  past,  exists 
already,  in  a  marked  degree,  in  every  modern  state;  and 
the  problem  before  us  is  to  discover  how  democracy  and 
liberty  of  the  subject  can  be  made  into  enduring  props 
rather  than  dissolvents.  It  is  the  problem  of  making 
democracy  genuine.  And  certainly,  if  that  cannot  be 
achieved  and  perpetuated,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
democracy  drifting  into  anarchism  and  dissolving  modern 
states,  till  they  are  the  prey  of  pouncing  dictators,  or  of 
states  not  so  far  gone  in  dissolution.  What,  for  instance, 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  341 

will  happen  to  Russia  if  she  does  not  succeed  in  making 
her  democracy  genuine?  A  Russia  which  remains  an- 
archic must  very  quickly  become  the  prey  of  her  neigh- 
bors on  west  and  east. 

Ever  since  the  substantial  introduction  of  democracy 
nearly  a  century  and  a  half  ago  with  the  American  War 
of  Independence,  Western  civilization  has  been  living  on 
two  planes  or  levels — the  autocratic  plane,  with  which  is 
bound  up  the  idea  of  nationalism,  and  the  democratic,  to 
which  has  become  conjoined  the  idea  of  internationalism. 
Not  only  little  wars,  but  great  wars  such  as  this,  come 
because  of  inequality  in  growth,  dissimilarity  of  political 
institutions  between  states;  because  this  state  or  that  is 
basing  its  life  on  different  principles  from  its  neighbors. 
The  decentralization,  delays,  critical  temper,  and  im- 
portance of  home  affairs  prevalent  in  democratic  coun- 
tries make  them  at  once  slower,  weaker,  less  apt  to  strike, 
and  less  prepared  to  strike  than  countries  where  bureau- 
cratic brains  subject  to  no  real  popular  check  devise 
world  policies  which  can  be  thrust,  prepared  to  the  last 
button,  on  the  world  at  a  moment's  notice.  The  free 
and  critical  spirit  in  America,  France,  and  Britain  has 
kept  our  democracies  comparatively  unprepared  for  any- 
thing save  their  own  affairs. 

We  fall  into  glib  usage  of  words  like  democracy  and 
make  fetiches  of  them  without  due  understanding.  De- 
mocracy is  inferior  to  autocracy  from  the  aggressively 
national  point  of  view;  it  is  not  necessarily  superior  to 
autocracy  as  a  guarantee  of  general  well-being;  it  may 
even  turn  out  to  be  inferior  unless  we  can  improve  it. 
But  democracy  is  the  rising  tide;  it  may  be  dammed  or 
delayed,  but  cannot  be  stopped.  It  seems  to  be  a  law 
in  human  nature  that  where,  in  any  corporate  society,  the 
idea  of  self-government  sets  foot  it  refuses  to  take  that 
foot  up  again.  State  after  state,  copying  the  American 


342  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

example,  has  adopted  the  democratic  principle;  the 
world's  face  is  that  way  set.  And  civilization  is  now  so 
of  a  pattern  that  the  Western  world  may  be  looked  on 
as  one  state  and  the  process  of  change  therein  from  au- 
tocracy to  democracy  regarded  as  though  it  were  taking 
place  in  a  single  old-time  country  such  as  Greece  or 
Rome.  If  throughout  Western  civilization  we  can  se- 
cure the  single  democratic  principle  of  government,  its 
single  level  of  state  morality  in  thought  and  action,  we 
shall  be  well  on  our  way  to  unanimity  throughout  the 
world;  for  even  in  China  and  Japan  the  democratic  virus 
is  at  work.  It  is  my  belief  that  only  in  a  world  thus  uni- 
form, and  freed  from  the  danger  of  pounce  by  autocracies, 
have  states  any  chance  to  develop  the  individual  con- 
science to  a  point  which  shall  make  democracy  proof 
against  anarchy  and  themselves  proof  against  dissolu- 
tion; and  only  in  such  a  world  can  a  League  of  Nations 
to  enforce  peace  succeed. 

But  even  if  we  do  secure  a  single  plane  for  Western 
civilization  and  ultimately  for  the  world,  there  will  be 
but  slow  and  difficult  progress  in  the  lot  of  mankind. 
And  unless  we  secure  it,  there  will  be  only  a  march  back- 
ward. 

For  this  advance  to  a  uniform  civilization  the  soli- 
darity of  the  English-speaking  races  is  vital.  Without 
that  there  will  be  no  bottom  on  which  to  build. 

The  ancestors  of  the  American  people  sought  a  new 
country  because  they  had  in  them  a  reverence  for  the  in- 
dividual conscience;  they  came  from  Britain,  the  first 
large  state  in  the  Christian  era  to  build  up  the  idea  of 
political  freedom.  The  instincts  and  ideals  of  our  two 
races  have  ever  been  the  same.  That  great  and  lovable 
people,  the  French,  with  their  clear  thought  and  expres- 
sion, and  their  quick  blood,  have  expressed  those  ideals 
more  vividly  than  either  of  us.  But  the  phlegmatic  and 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  343 

the  dry  tenacity  of  our  English  and  American  tempera- 
ments has  ever  made  our  countries  the  most  settled 
and  safe  homes  of  the  individual  conscience,  and  of  its 
children — Democracy,  Freedom  and  Internationalism. 
Whatever  their  faults — and  their  offenses  cry  aloud  to 
such  poor  heaven  as  remains  of  chivalry  and  mercy — the 
Germans  are  in  many  ways  a  great  race,  but  they  possess 
two  qualities  dangerous  to  the  individual  conscience — 
unquestioning  obedience  and  exaltation.  When  they 
embrace  the  democratic  idea  they  may  surpass  us  all  in 
its  logical  development,  but  the  individual  conscience 
will  still  not  be  at  ease  with  them.  We  must  look  to  our 
two  countries  to  guarantee  its  strength  and  activity,  and 
if  we  English-speaking  races  quarrel  and  become  dis- 
united, civilization  will  split  up  again  and  go  its  way  to 
ruin.  We  are  the  ballast  of  the  new  order. 

I  do  not  believe  in  formal  alliances  or  in  grouping  na- 
tions to  exclude  and  keep  down  other  nations.  Friend- 
ships between  countries  should  have  the  only  true  reality 
of  common  sentiment,  and  be  animated  by  desire  for  the 
general  welfare  of  mankind.  We  need  no  formal  bonds, 
but  we  have  a  sacred  charge  in  common,  to  let  no  petty 
matters,  differences  of  manner,  or  divergencies  of  ma- 
terial interest,  destroy  our  spiritual  agreement.  Our 
pasts,  our  geographical  positions,  our  temperaments  make 
us,  beyond  all  other  races,  the  hope  and  trustees  of  man- 
kind's advance  along  the  only  line  now  open — democratic 
internationalism.  It  is  childish  to  claim  for  Americans 
or  Britons  virtues  beyond  those  of  other  nations,  or  to 
believe  in  the  superiority  of  one  national  culture  to  an- 
other; they  are  different,  that  is  all.  It  is  by  accident 
that  we  find  ourselves  in  this  position  of  guardianship  to 
the  main  line  of  human  development;  no  need  to  pat 
ourselves  on  the  back  about  it.  But  we  are  at  a  great  and 
critical  moment  in  the  world's  history — how  critical  none 


344  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

of  us  alive  will  ever  realize.  The  civilization  slowly  built 
since  the  fall  of  Rome  has  either  to  break  up  and  dissolve 
into  jagged  and  isolated  fragments  through  a  century  of 
wars;  or,  unified  and  reanimated  by  a  single  idea,  to 
move  forward  on  one  plane  and  attain  greater  height  and 
breadth. 

Under  the  pressure  of  this  war  there  is,  beneath  the 
lip-service  we  pay  to  democracy,  a  disposition  to  lose 
faith  in  it  because  of  its  undoubted  weakness  and  incon- 
venience in  a  struggle  with  states  autocratically  governed; 
there  is  even  a  sort  of  secret  reaction  to  autocracy.  On 
those  lines  there  is  no  way  out  of  a  future  of  bitter  rival- 
ries, chicanery  and  wars,  and  the  probable  total  failure  of 
our  civilization.  The  only  cure  which  I  can  see  lies  in 
democratizing  the  whole  world  and  removing  the  present 
weaknesses  and  shams  of  democracy  by  education  of  the 
individual  conscience  in  every  country.  Good-by  to  that 
chance  if  Americans  and  Britons  fall  foul  of  each  other, 
refuse  to  pool  their  thoughts  and  hopes,  and  to  keep  the 
general  welfare  of  mankind  in  view.  They  have  got  to 
stand  together,  not  in  aggressive  and  jealous  policies,  but 
in  defense  and  championship  of  the  self-helpful,  self- 
governing,  "live  and  let  live"  philosophy  of  life. 

The  house  of  the  future  is  always  dark.  There  are 
few  corner-stones  to  be  discerned  in  the  temple  of  our 
fate.  But  of  these  few  one  is  the  brotherhood  and  bond 
of  the  English-speaking  races,  not  for  narrow  purposes, 
but  that  mankind  may  yet  see  faith  and  good-will  en- 
shrined, yet  breathe  a  sweeter  air,  and  know  a  life  where 
Beauty  passes,  with  the  sun  on  her  wings. 

We  want  in  the  lives  of  men  a  "Song  of  Honor,"  as  in 
Ralph  Hodgson's  poem: 

"The  song  of  men  all  sorts  and  kinds, 
As  many  tempers,  moods  and  minds 
As  leaves  are  on  a  tree, 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  345 

As  many  faiths  and  castes  and  creeds, 
As  many  human  bloods  and  breeds, 
As  in  the  world  may  be." 

In  the  making  of  that  song  the  English-speaking  races 
will  assuredly  unite.  What  made  this  world  we  know 
not;  the  principle  of  life  is  inscrutable  and  will  forever  be; 
but  we  know  that  Earth  is  yet  on  the  up-grade  of  existence, 
the  mountain  top  of  man's  life  not  reached,  that  many 
centuries  of  growth  are  yet  in  front  of  us  before  Nature 
begins  to  chill  this  planet  till  it  swims,  at  last,  another 
moon,  in  space.  In  the  climb  to  that  mountain  top  of  a 
happy  life  for  mankind  our  two  great  nations  are  as  guides 
who  go  before,  roped  together  in  perilous  ascent.  On 
their  nerve,  loyalty,  and  wisdom  the  adventure  now  hangs. 
What  American  or  British  knife  will  sever  the  rope? 

He  who  ever  gives  a  thought  to  the  life  of  man  at  large, 
to  his  miseries  and  disappointments,  to  the  waste  and 
cruelty  of  existence,  will  remember  that  if  American  or 
Briton  fail  himself,  or  fail  the  other,  there  can  but  be  for 
us  both,  and  for  all  other  peoples,  a  hideous  slip,  a  swift 
and  fearful  fall  into  an  abyss,  whence  all  shall  be  to  begin 
over  again. 

We  shall  not  fail — neither  ourselves,  nor  each  other. 
Our  comradeship  will  endure. 

1917. 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE 
IS  THE  WORLD  GROWING  BETTER? 


Henry  van  Dyke  (1852 ),  one  of  the  eminent  men 

of  letters  of  to-day,  was  born  at  Germantown,  near  Phila- 
delphia. He  prepared  for  college  at  the  Brooklyn  Poly- 
technic Institute,  and  was  graduated  from  Princeton  in 
1873.  He  next  took  a  course  in  the  Theological  Seminary, 
followed  by  study  at  the  University  of  Berlin.  He  en- 
tered the  Presbyterian  ministry,  serving  as  pastor  of  the 
Brick  Presbyterian  Church  in  New  York  City.  His  work 
as  a  literary  critic  having  given  him  a  reputation,  he  was 
offered  and  accepted  a  position  as  professor  of  literature 
at  Princeton.  In  1913-17  he  served  as  United  States 
minister  to  the  Netherlands,  and  during  the  World  War 
his  writings  were  of  great  value,  both  as  interpreting 
Europe  to  America  and  America  to  Europe.  He  has  re- 
ceived degrees  from  many  universities;  he  is  a  commander 
in  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  has  served  as  president  of 
the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences. 

His  published  works  include  a  score  of  volumes,  the 
most  important  of  which  are  a  book  of  essays  on  The  Po- 
etry of  Tennyson  ;  several  volumes  of  poems,  published  in 
collected  form  in  1911;  two  books  of  short  stories,  The 
Blue  Flower  and  The  Ruling  Passion,  and  several  volumes 
of  essays  and  sketches  with  such  attractive  titles  as  Fisher- 
man's Luck,  Little  Rivers,  and  Days  Off.  Another  volume, 
Essays  in  Application,  deals  with  deeper  themes;  it  is 
from  this  that  the  essay,  "Is  the  World  Growing  Better?" 
is  taken. 

His  writing  is  characterized  by  finish  of  style,  breadth 
of  outlook,  and  ripe  and  serene  wisdom. 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

IS  THE  WORLD  GROWING  BETTER? 

(From  Essays  in  Application) 

No  man  knows,  of  a  certainty,  the  answer  to  this 
question. 

If  it  were  an  inquiry  into  the  condition  of  the  world's 
pocketbook,  or  farm,  or  garden,  or  machine  house,  or 
library,  or  schoolroom,  the  answer  would  be  easy.  Six 
million  more  spindles  whirling  in  the  world's  workshop 
in  1903  than  in  1900;  eight  hundred  million  more  bushels 
of  wheat  in  the  world's  grain-fields  than  in  1897;  an  aver- 
age school  attendance  gaining  145  per  cent  between  1840 
and  1888,  while  the  population  of  Europe  increased  only 
33  per  cent.  So  the  figures  run  in  every  department. 
No  doubt  the  world  is  busier,  richer,  better  fed,  and  prob- 
ably it  knows  more,  than  ever  before. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  highly  ethereal  and  supercilious 
people  who  can  find  nothing  in  this  to  please  them,  and 
who  cry  lackadaisically:  "What  is  all  this  worth?"  I 
am  honest  enough  to  confess  to  a  sense  of  satisfaction 
when  my  little  vegetable  garden  rewards  my  care  with 
an  enlarged  crop,  or  when  my  children  bring  home  a 
good  report  from  school.  Why  should  not  a  common- 
sense  philanthropy  Jead  us  to  feel  in  the  same  way  about 
the  improved  condition  and  the  better  reports  of  the  big 
world  to  which  we  belong?  Of  course  our  satisfaction  is 
checked  and  shadowed,  often  very  darkly  shadowed,  by 
the  remembrance  of  those  who  are  left  behind  in  the 
march  of  civilization — the  retarded  races,  the  benighted 
classes,  the  poor  relations,  of  the  world.  But  our  sym- 
pathy with  them  is  much  more  likely  to  be  helpful  if  it 

349 


350  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

is  hopeful,  than  if  it  is  despairing.  I  do  not  think  it 
necessary  to  cultivate  melancholy  or  misanthropy  as  a 
preparation  for  beneficence. 

A  generous  man  ought  to  find  something  cheerful  and 
encouraging  to  his  own  labors,  in  the  knowledge  that  the 
world  is  growing  "better  off." 

But  is  it  growing  better?  That's  another  question, 
and  a  far  more  important  one.  What  is  happening  to 
the  world  itself,  the  owner  of  all  this  gear,  the  prosperous 
old  adventurer  whose  wealth,  according  to  Mr.  Gladstone, 
increased  twice  as  much  during  the  first  seventy  years  of 
the  nineteenth  century  as  it  had  done  during  the  eighteen 
hundred  years  preceding?  Is  this  marvellous  increase 
of  goods  beneficial  to  the  character  of  the  race  ?  Or  is  it 
injurious?  Or  has  it,  perhaps,  no  deep  or  definite  influ- 
ence one  way  or  the  other? 

You  know  how  hard  it  is  to  come  to  a  clear  and  just 
conclusion  on  such  points  as  these,  even  in  the  case  of  an 
individual  man.  Peter  Silvergilt's  wealth  has  grown 
from  nothing  to  three  hundred  million  dollars  during  the 
last  fifty  years;  but  are  you  sure  that  Peter's  personality 
is  better,  finer,  nobler,  more  admirable  than  it  was  when 
he  was  a  telegraph-boy  earning  ten  dollars  a  week? 
William  Wiseman  has  a  world- wide  fame  as  a  scholar; 
it  is  commonly  reported  that  he  has  forgotten  more  than 
most  men  ever  knew;  but  can  you  trust  William  more 
implicitly  to  be  fair  and  true  and  generous  than  when 
he  was  an  obscure  student  just  beginning  to  work  for  a 
degree  in  philosophy? 

When  we  try  to  apply  such  questions,  not  to  a  single 
person,  but  to  the  world  at  large,  positive  and  mathemat- 
ical answers  are  impossible.  The  field  of  inquiry  is  too 
vast.  The  facts  of  racial  character  are  too  secret  and 
subtle. 

But  a  provisional  estimate  of  the  general  condition  of 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  351 

the  world  from  the  point  of  view  of  goodness,  comparing 
the  present  with  the  past — a  probable  guess  at  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  race  is  moving  morally — this  is  some- 
thing that  we  may  fairly  make.  Indeed,  if  you  think  and 
care  much  about  your  brother  men  you  can  hardly  help 
making  it,  and  upon  the  color  of  this  guess  the  tone  of 
your  philosophy  depends.  If  the  color  is  dark,  you  be- 
long among  the  pessimists,  who  cannot  be  very  happy, 
though  they  may  sometimes  be  rather  useful.  If  the 
color  is  bright,  you  are  what  men  call  an  optimist,  though 
I  think  George  Eliot's  word,  "meliorist,"  would  be  a 
more  fitting  name. 

For  what  is  it,  after  all,  that  we  can  venture  to  claim 
for  this  old  world  of  ours,  at  most?  Certainly  not  that 
it  is  altogether  good,  nor  even  that  it  is  as  good  as  it  might 
be  and  therefore  ought  to  be.  Police  stations  and  prisons 
and  wars  are  confessions  that  some  things  are  wrong  and 
need  correction.  The  largest  claim  that  a  cheerful  man 
who  is  also  a  thoughtful  man — a  child  of  hope  with  his 
eyes  open — dares  to  make  for  the  world  is  that  it  is  better 
than  it  used  to  be,  and  that  it  has  a  fair  prospect  of 
further  improvement.  This  is  meliorism,  the  philosophy 
of  actual  and  possible  betterment;  not  a  high-stepping, 
trumpet-blowing,  self-flattering  creed,  immediately  avail- 
able for  advertising  purposes;  but  a  modest  and  sober 
faith,  useful  for  consolation  in  those  hours  of  despondency 
and  personal  disappointment  when  the  grasshopper  and 
the  critic  both  become  a  burden,  and  for  encouragement 
to  more  earnest  effort  in  those  hours  of  cheer  when  a 
high  tide  of  the  spirit  fills  us  with  good-will  to  our  fellow 
men. 

I  asked  John  Friendly  the  other  day:  "Do  you  think 
the  world  is  growing  better?" 

"Certainly,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  like  sunrise  on  his 
honest  face,  "I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  of  it." 


352  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

"But  what  makes  you  so  sure  of  it?" 

"Why,  it  must  be  so!  Look  at  all  the  work  that  is 
being  done  to-day  to  educate  people  and  help  them  into 
better  ways  of  living.  All  this  effort  must  count  for 
something.  The  wagon  must  move  with  so  many  horses 
pulling  at  it.  The  world  can't  help  growing  better !" 

Then  he  left  me,  to  go  down  to  a  meeting  of  his  "  Citizens' 
Committee  for  the  Application  of  the  Social  Boycott  to 
Political  Offenders"  (which  frequently  adjourns  without 
a  quorum).  Immediately  afterward  I  passed  the  door  of 
the  "Michael  T.  Moriarty  Republi-cratic  Club" — wide 
open  and  crowded.  On  my  way  up  the  avenue  I  saw  a 
liquor-saloon  on  every  block — and  all  busy.  The  news- 
stands were  full  of  placards  announcing  articles  in  the 
magazines — "Graft  in  Chicago,"  "The  Criminal  Calendar 
of  Millionaires,"  "St.  Louis,  the  Bribers'  Paradise,"  "The 
Plunder  of  Philadelphia."  Head-lines  in  the  yellow  jour- 
nals told  of  "Immense  Slaughter  in  Manchuria,"  "Russia 
Ripe  for  Revolution,"  "The  Black  Hand  Terror  in  the 
Bronx,"  "Gilded  Gambling-Dens  of  the  Four  Hundred," 
"Diamonds  and  Divorce." 

John  Friendly's  cheerful  a  priori*  confidence  in  the  bet- 
terment of  the  world  seemed  to  need  reinforcement.  Some 
of  the  horses  are  pulling  his  way,  no  doubt,  but  a  good 
many  appear  to  be  pulling  the  other  way.  Under  such 
conditions  the  wagon  might  stick  fast,  or  go  backward. 
Possibly  it  might  be  pulled  to  pieces.  Who  can  measure, 
in  the  abstract,  the  comparative  strength  of  the  good  and 
the  evil  forces?  Who  can  tell  beforehand  which  way  the 
tug-of-war  must  go? 

The  only  sound  and  satisfactory  method  is  to  bring 
out  the  foot  rule  of  fact  and  apply  it  to  the  tracks  of  the 
wagon.  Has  it  moved  ?  How  fast,  how  far,  which  way  ? 

"Growing  better"  is  a  phrase  about  which  a  company 
*  A  priori,  reasoning  from  cause  to  effect. 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  353 

of  college  professors  would  probably  have  a  long  prelim- 
inary dispute;  but  plain  people  understand  it  well  enough 
for  practical  purposes.  There  are  three  factors  in  it. 
When  we  say  that  a  man  grows  better,  we  mean  that,  in 
the  main,  he  is  becoming  more  just,  and  careful  to  do  the 
right  thing;  more  kind,  and  ready  to  do  the  helpful  thing; 
more  self-controlled,  and  willing  to  sacrifice  his  personal 
will  to  the  general  welfare.  Is  the  world  growing  better 
in  this  sense?  Is  there  more  justice,  more  kindness, 
more  self-restraint,  among  the  inhabitants  of  earth  than 
in  the  days  of  old? 

Of  course,  when  we  consider  a  question  like  this,  before 
even  a  modest  guess  at  the  answer  is  possible,  we  must  be 
willing  to  take  a  long  view  and  a  wide  view.  The  world, 
like  the  individual  man,  has  its  moods  and  its  vagaries, 
its  cold  fits  and  its  hot  fits,  its  backslidings  and  its  re- 
pentances, its  reactions  and  its  revivals.  An  advance 
made  in  one  century  may  be  partly  lost  in  the  next,  and 
regained  with  interest  in  a  later  century.  One  nation 
may  be  degenerating,  under  local  infections  of  evil,  while 
others  are  improving.  There  may  be  years,  or  regions, 
of  short  harvest  in  the  field  of  morals,  just  as  there  are 
in  the  cotton-field  or  the  corn-field.  The  same  general 
conditions  that  work  well  for  the  development  of  most 
men,  may  prove  unfavorable  to  certain  races.  Civiliza- 
tion seems  to  oppress  and  demoralize  some  tribes  to  the 
point  of  extinction.  Liberty  is  a  tonic  too  strong  for 
certain  temperaments;  it  intoxicates  them.  But  what 
we  have  to  look  at  is  not  the  local  exception,  nor  the  tem- 
porary reaction:  it  is  the  broad  field  as  far  as  we  can  see 
it,  the  general  movement  as  far  as  we  can  trace  it.  And 
as  I  try  to  look  at  the  question  in  this  way,  clearly  and 
steadily,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  world  is  really  growing 
better:  not  in  every  eddy,  but  in  the  main  current  of  its 
life;  not  in  a  straight  line,  but  with  a  winding  course;  not 


354  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

in  every  respect,  but  in  at  least  two  of  the  three  main 
points  of  goodness;  not  swiftly,  but  slowly,  surely,  really 
growing  better. 

Take  the  matter  of  justice.  The  world's  sense  of 
equity,  its  desire  to  act  fairly  and  render  to  every  man 
his  due,  is  expressed  most  directly  in  its  laws.  Who  can 
fail  to  see  a  process  of  improvement  in  the  spirit  and  tem- 
per of  legislation,  a  conscientious  effort  to  make  the  law 
more  efficient  in  the  protection  of  human  rights  and  more 
just  in  the  punishment  of  offenses? 

In  Shakespeare's  time,  for  example,  a  woman's  exist- 
ence, in  the  eye  of  the  law,  was  merged  in  that  of  her 
husband.  A  man  could  say  of  his  wife:  "She  is  my 
goods,  my  chattels;  she  is  my  house,  my  household  stuff, 
my  field,  my  barn,  my  horse,  my  ox,  my  anything."  The 
very  presents  which  he  gave  her  were  still  his  property. 
He  could  beat  her.  He  could  deprive  her  of  the  guardian- 
ship of  her  children.  It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  century  that  the  law  secured  her  right  to 
the  separate  use  of  her  property,  and  not  until  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century  that  the  legislation  of  Great 
Britain  and  America  began  to  recognize  and  protect  her 
as  a  person,  entitled  to  work  and  receive  wages,  to  dis- 
pose of  her  own  earnings,  to  have  an  equal  share  with 
her  husband  in  the  guardianship  of  their  children.  Surely 
it  is  an  immense  gain  in  justice  that  woman  should  be 
treated  as  a  human  being. 

This  gain  is  most  evident,  of  course,  in  those  nations 
which  are  leading  the  march  of  civilization.  But  I  think 
we  can  see  traces  of  it  elsewhere.  The  abolition  of  child- 
marriage  and  the  practical  extinction  of  the  suttee*  in 
India,  the  decline  of  the  cruelly  significant  fashion  of 

*  Suttee,  the  custom  among  Hindoo  wives  of  casting  themselves 
into  the  funeral  pyre  where  the  body  of  the  husband  was  being 
burned. 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  355 

" foot-binding"  in  China,  the  beginning  of  the  education 
of  girls  in  Egypt,  are  hints  that  even  the  heathen  world 
is  learning  to  believe  that  woman  may  have  a  claim  to 
justice. 

In  the  same  way  we  must  interpret  the  laws  for  the 
protection  of  the  young  against  cruelt}^  oppression,  and 
injustice.  Beginning  with  the  Factory  Act  of  1833  and 
the  Mines  and  Collieries  Act  of  1842  in  England,  there 
has  been  a  steadily  increasing  effort  to  diminish  and  pre- 
vent the  degradation  of  the  race  by  the  enslavement  of 
childhood  to  labor.  Even  the  parent's  right  of  control, 
says  the  modern  world,  must  be  held  in  harmony  with  the 
child's  right  to  life  and  growth,  mental,  moral,  and  physi- 
cal. The  law  itself  must  recognize  the  injustice  of  deal- 
ing with  young  delinquents  as  if  they  were  old  and  hard- 
ened criminals.  No  more  herding  of  children  ten  and 
twelve  years  old  in  the  common  jail !  Juvenile  courts 
and  probation  officers,  asylums  and  reformatories:  an  in- 
telligent and  systematic  effort  to  reclaim  the  young  life 
before  it  has  fallen  into  hopeless  bondage  to  crime :  this  is 
the  spirit  of  civilized  legislation  to-day.  In  1903  no  less 
than  ten  of  the  American  states  enacted  special  statutes 
with  this  end  in  view. 

The  great  change  for  the  better  in  modern  criminal 
law  is  another  proof  that  the  world  is  growing  more  just. 
Brutal  and  degrading  methods  of  execution,  such  as  cruci- 
fixion, burying  alive,  impaling,  disembowelling,  breaking 
on  the  wheel:  the  judicial  torture  of  prisoners  and  unwill- 
ing witnesses  by  the  thumb-screw,  the  strappado,  and  the 
rack:  cruel  and  agonizing  penalties  of  various  kinds  have 
been  abolished,  not  merely  by  way  of  concession  to  hu- 
manity, but  with  the  purpose  of  maintaining  justice  in 
purity  and  dignity. 

The  world  has  been  learning  to  discriminate  more  care- 
fully between  the  degrees  of  crime.  In  the  eighteenth 


35S  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

century  men  were  condemned  to  death  for  forgery;  for 
stealing  from  a  shop  to  the  value  of  five  shillings  or  from 
a  house  to  the  value  of  forty  shillings;  for  malicious  in- 
jury to  trees,  cattle,  or  fish-ponds;  for  the  cutting  of  hop- 
bands  from  the  poles  in  a  plantation.  Within  eighty 
years  capital  punishment  has  been  inflicted  in  England 
for  sheep-stealing  and  for  robbery  from  a  house.  The 
laws  of  Pennsylvania  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  enu- 
merated twenty  crimes  punishable  with  death;  in  Virginia 
and  Kentucky  there  were  twenty-seven.  Modern  legis- 
lation recognizes  the  futility  as  well  as  the  fundamental 
injustice  of  such  crass  and  indiscriminate  retribution,  and 
reserves  the  final  penalty  for  the  supreme  crime  against 
the  life  of  the  individual  or  the  state. 

At  the  same  time  there  has  been  a  twofold  rectification 
of  the  scope  of  the  criminal  law.  Some  of  the  offenses 
most  severely  punished  in  old  times  have  ceased  to  be 
grounds  of  prosecution:  for  example,  heresy,  witchcraft, 
religious  nonconformity.  On  the  other  hand,  misdeeds 
which  formerly  were  disregarded  have  been  made  pun- 
ishable. It  was  not  until  1833  that  the  English  law  began 
to  treat  drunkenness  as  a  crime,  rather  than  a  misfortune. 
In  1857  a  fraud  on  the  part  of  a  trustee,  and  in  1875  the 
falsification  of  accounts,  were  declared  to  be  criminal. 
The  laws  of  various  States  are  recognizing  and  defining  a 
vast  number  of  new  misdemeanors,  such  as  the  adultera- 
tion of  foods,  gambling,  violation  of  laws  in  restraint  of 
the  liquor  traffic,  selling  cigarettes  to  children,  tapping 
electric  wires,  disfiguring  the  landscape  with  advertise- 
ments or  printing  them  on  the  American  flag,  making 
combinations  in  restraint  of  trade,  sleeping  in  a  public 
bakery,  spitting  on  the  floor  of  a  street-car.  I  do  not 
say  that  all  of  these  offenses  are  wisely  defined  or  fairly 
punished;  but  I  do  say  that  the  process  of  modern  legis- 
lation in  regard  to  such  matters  indicates  a  growing  desire 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  357 

among  men  that  justice  shall  prevail  in  the  commu- 
nity. 

A  large  part  of  what  appears  to  be  the  increase  of 
crime  in  recent  years  (according  to  statistics),  is  due  to 
this  new  definition  of  misdemeanors.  There  are  more 
offenders  in  the  most  peaceful  and  well-governed  states, 
because  there  are  more  offenses  defined.  Another  part 
comes  from  the  greater  efficiency  in  the  execution  of  laws 
and  the  greater  completeness  in  the  tabulation  of  reports. 
The  remaining  part  comes  from  a  cause  on  which  I  will 
touch  later.  But  in  spite  of  this  apparent  increase  of 
crime,  no  sensible  man  believes  that  the  actual  amount 
of  violence  and  disorder  among  men  is  as  great  as  it  used 
to  be.  Pike's  History  of  Crime  in  England  estimates  that 
in  the  fourteenth  century  murders  were  at  least  sixteen 
times  as  frequent  as  in  our  own  day. 

I  pass  by  such  notorious  and  splendid  triumphs  of  the 
world's  moral  sense  as  the  abolition  of  the  slave-trade, 
and  the  establishment  of  international  law,  to  mention 
two  humble,  concrete  illustrations  of  what  I  mean  by  the 
advance  of  justice.  The  purchase  by  the  American  Gov- 
ernment of  the  lands  of  the  Spanish  friars  in  the  Phil- 
ippines was  a  just  way  of  accomplishing  what  would  have 
been  done  a  century  ago  by  confiscation.  The  passage 
by  the  Congress  of  the  United  States  of  an  act  granting 
copyright  to  foreigners  was  a  recognition,  resisted  by 
selfishness  and  ignorance  for  fifty  years,  of  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  righteousness  and  fair  dealing. 

I  know  there  are  many  items,  and  some  of  them  most 
grievous,  to  be  set  down  on  the  other  side.  There  are 
still  wars  of  conquest;  corruptions  and  delays  in  legisla- 
tion; oppressions  and  inequalities  in  government;  rob- 
beries and  cruelties  which  go  unpunished.  But  these  are 
not  new  things;  they  are  as  old  as  sin;  evils  not  yet  shaken 
off.  I  do  not  dream  that  the  world  is  already  quite  just. 


358  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

But  by  the  light  that  comes  from  the  wiser,  fairer  laws  of 
many  lands,  I  guess  that  the  world  is  growing  more  just. 

In  regard  to  the  increase  of  kindness  in  the  human 
race,  the  evidence  is  even  more  clear  and  strong.  There 
are  more  people  in  the  world  who  love  mercy,  and  they 
are  having  better  success  in  making  their  spirit  prevail. 
More  is  being  done  to-day  to  prevent  and  mitigate  human 
suffering,  to  shelter  and  protect  the  weak  and  helpless,  to 
minister  wisely  to  the  sick  and  wounded  in  body  and  in 
mind,  than  ever  before  in  the  history  of  mankind.  Part 
of  the  evidence  of  this  lies  in  some  of  the  facts  already 
noted  in  connection  with  the  humanizing  of  the  law,  and 
in  the  extraordinary  story  of  the  work  begun  by  John 
Howard,  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago,  which  has 
cleansed  away  so  much  of  the  shame  of  a  cruel,  filthy,  and 
irrational  prison  system.  But  there  is  evidence,  also,  of 
a  more  direct  and  positive  sort,  going  beyond  the  removal 
of  ancient  evils  and  manifesting  a  spirit  of  creative  kind- 
ness eager  to  find  new  ways  of  helping  others. 

Since  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  says  the 
best  authority  on  statistics,  charity  has  grown  twice  as 
fast  as  wealth  in  England,  three  times  as  fast  in  France. 
In  the  United  States  the  amount  of  the  larger  gifts  ($5,000 
or  more)  rose  from  $29,000,000,  in  1893,  to  $107,000,000, 
in  1901.  The  public  and  private  charities  of  New  York 
alone  (excluding  the  money  spent  on  buildings)  are  esti- 
mated at  $50,000,000  a  year. 

With  all  this  increase  of  money  comes  an  equal  increase 
of  care  and  thought  in  regard  to  the  best  way  of  using  it 
for  the  real  benefit  of  mankind.  Reckless  almsgiving  is 
recognized  as  an  amiable  but  idiotic  form  of  self-indul- 
gence. The  penny  dropped  into  the  beggar's  hat  gives 
place  to  an  inquiry  into  the  beggar's  condition.  This 
costs  more,  but  it  is  worth  more.  Waste  in  money  given 
is  no  more  virtuous  than  waste  in  money  earned.  Schools 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  359 

of  philanthropy  are  established  to  study  and  teach  the 
economy  of  generosity.  Asylums  are  investigated  and 
supervised.  Relief  funds  are  intrusted  to  responsible 
committees,  who  keep  books  and  render  accounts.  Men 
and  women  are  trying  to  take  the  head  into  partnership 
with  the  heart  in  beneficence.  A  rich  father  and  mother 
lose  their  child  by  scarlet  fever:  they  give  a  million  dol- 
lars to  endow  an  institution  for  the  study  and  prevention 
of  infectious  diseases.  An  excursion  steamboat  is  burned 
in  New  York  harbor  and  a  thousand  people,  most  of  them 
poor,  lose  their  lives;  within  two  weeks  $125,000  is  given 
for  relief;  it  is  not  thrown  away  with  open  hands,  but  ad- 
ministered by  a  committee  with  as  much  care  as  they 
would  bestow  on  their  own  affairs;  every  dollar  is  ac- 
counted for,  and  a  balance  of  $17,000  is  left,  to  meet 
future  calls,  or  to  be  devoted  to  some  kindred  purpose. 
These  are  illustrations  of  intelligent  mercy. 

Consider  the  advance  in  the  general  spirit  of  kindness 
which  is  indicated  by  such  a  fact  as  the  founding  and  suc- 
cessful operation  of  the  system  of  Working  Men's  Insur- 
ance in  Germany.  A  certain  sum  of  money  is  set  aside 
for  each  workman  every  week  (the  employer  and  the 
employee  each  contributing  half),  and  the  Government 
adds  a  supplement  of  twelve  dollars  on  each  pension. 
Ten  million  workmen  are  thus  insured  against  sickness; 
seventeen  million  against  accident;  ten  million  against 
disability  from  old  age.  Six  hundred  and  seventy  thou- 
sand persons  receive  the  benefit  of  this  fund  in  yearly 
pensions.  Incidentally  there  has  been  an  immense  bene- 
fit in  the  increase  of  precautions  to  prevent  accidents  and 
to  reduce  dangerous  occupations.  The  employer  who  is 
not  yet  willing  to  protect  his  workmen,  for  kindness'  sake, 
will  do  it  to  escape  heavier  taxes.  And  the  community 
which  silently  compels  him  to  do  this,  the  community 
which  says  to  the  laboring  man,  "If  you  will  perform  your 


360  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

duty,  you  shall  not  starve  when  you  are  sick  and  old/' 
is  certainly  growing  more  kind  as  well  as  more  just. 

Look  at  the  broad  field  of  what  we  may  call  interna- 
tional mercy.  It  has  been  estimated  that  since  the  days 
when  the  failure  of  the  harvest  drove  Abraham  from  Pal- 
estine down  to  Egypt  to  seek  food  for  his  starving  people, 
there  have  been  three  hundred  and  fifty  great  famines  in 
various  parts  of  the  world.  How  many  of  the  hungry 
nations  received  help  from  the  outside  world  before  the 
nineteenth  century  began  ?  But  now,  within  a  week  after 
the  distress  is  known,  money,  food,  and  help  of  all  kinds 
begin  to  flow  in  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe.  The 
famine  in  India  in  1900-1901  called  forth  contributions 
from  Great  Britain,  Germany,  France,  America,  to  the 
amount  of  $72,000,000.  The  greater  part  came  from 
England,  of  course,  but  the  whole  world  stood  ready  to 
aid  her. 

After  the  great  fire  of  London  in  1666,  and  the  Lisbon 
earthquake  in  1755,  there  was  some  outside  assistance 
given,  it  is  true.  But  in  the  main,  the  stricken  cities  had 
to  suffer  alone  and  help  themselves.  When  the  little  city 
of  Galveston,  Texas,  was  swept  by  flood  in  1900,  within 
three  weeks  $750,000  was  poured  in  for  its  relief,  and 
the  whole  fund  amounted  to  nearly  a  million  and  a 
half. 

Turn  again  to  look  at  the  effort  which  the  world  is 
making  to  get  rid  of  the  hell  of  war,  or,  if  that  be  not 
possible,  at  least  to  mitigate  its  horrors  and  torments. 
The  High  Tribunal  of  Arbitration  at  The  Hague  is  a 
mile-stone  on  the  world's  path  of  progress  toward  the 
peaceful  method  of  solving  international  disputes.  Each 
year  sees  some  new  advance  in  that  direction.  Since 
1903  Great  Britain  and  France,  Holland  and  Denmark, 
France  and  Spain,  Great  Britain  and  Italy,  France  and 
Holland,  Great  Britain  and  Spain,  Italy  and  France,  have 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  301 

made  treaties  by  which  they  pledge  themselves  to  refer 
all  differences  of  certain  kinds  which  may  arise  between 
them  to  this  tribunal  for  settlement.  During  the  same 
time  at  least  seven  international  questions  have  been  re- 
ferred to  special  arbitrators. 

True,  war  has  not  yet  been  eliminated  from  the  pro- 
gramme of  the  race.  Great  armaments  are  maintained 
at  incredible  expense,  and  nations  insist,  as  Ruskin  said, 
that  it  is  good  policy  to  purchase  terror  of  one  another  at 
the  cost  of  hundreds  of  millions  every  year.  Some  of  the 
honest  friends  of  peace  are  not  yet  reasonable  enough  to 
see  the  folly  of  this  arrangement.  A  peace  which  depends 
upon  fear  is  nothing  but  a  suppressed  war.  Every  now 
and  then  the  restraining  fear  gives  way,  in  one  place  or 
another,  and  thousands  of  men  are  dreaeed  in  uniform 
and  marshalled  with  music  to  blow  one  another's  brains 
out.  But,  in  spite  of  all  this,  the  growth  of  the  spirit  of 
mercy  in  the  world  makes  itself  known  in  the  application 
of  more  humane  rules  to  the  inhumanity  of  war.  Private 
wars,  prevalent  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  piracy,  tolerated 
until  the  nineteenth  century,  have  been  abolished.  The 
slaughter,  torture,  and  enslavement  of  prisoners  of  war, 
which  was  formerly  practised  by  even  Christian  nations, 
gave  place  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  to  the 
custom  of  releasing  all  prisoners  at  the  close  of  the  war 
without  ransom.  Even  Mahometan  nations  agreed  by 
treaty  that  they  would  no  longer  subject  their  captives 
to  bondage  or  torture.  Persia  and  Turkey,  in  1828, 
pledged  themselves  to  the  exchange  of  prisoners. 

There  has  been  a  steady  advance  in  the  strictness  and 
efficiency  of  the  rules  protecting  the  life  and  property  of 
non-combatants,  an  immense  decrease  in  the  atrocities 
inflicted  by  conquering  armies  upon  the  peaceful  inhabi- 
tants of  vanquished  countries.  Let  any  man  read  the 
story  of  the  siege  and  sack  of  a  town  in  Holland  by  the 


362  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

Spanish  soldiers  as  it  is  given  in  Motley's  Dutch  Republic, 
and  compare  it  with  the  story  of  the  capture  of  Paris  in 
1870,  or  even  the  taking  of  Pekin  in  1900,  and  he  will 
understand  that  war  itself  has  felt  the  restraining  touch 
of  mercy.  Let  him  reflect  upon  the  significance  of  the 
work  of  the  Red  Cross  Society,  with  its  pledge  of  kindly 
succor  to  all  who  are  wounded  in  battle,  "treating  friend 
and  foe  alike";  let  him  consider  the  remarkable  fact  that 
this  society  in  Japan  has  a  service  as  perfectly  organized 
as  any  in  the  world,  with  a  million  members,  and  an  an- 
nual income  of  more  than  $1,500,000,  and  he  cannot  but 
acknowledge  that  the  spirit  of  pity  and  compassion  has 
gained  ground  since  the  days  of  Charlemagne  and  Bar- 
barossa  and  Napoleon — yes,  even  since  the  days  of  Libby 
Prison  and  Elmira.  And  if  none  of  these  things  are  enough 
to  comfort  or  encourage  him,  let  him  take  in  the  meaning 
of  the  simple  fact  that  not  one  of  the  great  nations  of 
the  world  to-day  would  dare  to  proclaim  a  war  in  the 
name  of  Religion.  By  this  blessed  change  alone,  I  should 
make  bold  to  guess  that  the  world  is  surely  growing 
better. 

But  how  is  it  with  the  third  factor  of  real  betterment: 
self-restraint,  the  willingness  to  sacrifice  one's  own  pas- 
sion and  pleasure  for  the  good  of  others?  Here,  I  con- 
fess, my  guessing  is  confused  and  troubled.  There  was  a 
vast  improvement  from  the  fourteenth  to  the  nineteenth 
century,  no  doubt.  But  whether  the  twentieth  century 
is  carrying  on  the  advance  seems  uncertain. 

It  may  be  that  on  this  point  we  have  entered  into  a 
period  of  reaction.  The  theory  of  individual  liberty 
threatens  to  assert  itself  in  dangerous  forms.  Literature 
and  art  are  throwing  their  enchantments  about  the  old 
lie  that  life's  highest  value  is  found  in  moments  of  in- 
tense self -gratification.  Speed  is  glorified,  regardless  of 
direction.  Strength  is  worshipped  at  the  expense  of 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  363 

reason.  Success  is  deified  as  the  power  to  do  what  one 
likes.  Gilding  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 

On  the  one  hand,  we  have  a  so-called  "upper  class," 
which  says:  "The  world  was  made  to  amuse  me;  nothing 
else  matters."  On  the  other  hand,  we  have  an  appar- 
ent increase  of  the  criminal  class,  which  lives  at  war  with 
the  social  order.  Corporations  and  labor  unions  engage 
in  a  struggle  so  fierce  that  the  rights  and  interests  of  the 
community  are  forgotten  by  both  parties.  In  our  own 
country  lynching,  which  is  organized  murder  for  unproved 
offenses,  grows  more  common;  divorces  increase  to  60,000 
in  one  year;  and  there  is  an  epidemic  of  shocking  acci- 
dents and  disasters,  greater  than  any  hitherto  recorded, 
and  due  apparently  to  the  spirit  of  unrestraint  and  reck- 
lessness which  is  sweeping  furiously  in  its  motor-car  along 
the  highways  of  modern  life. 

Is  this  selfish  and  headlong  spirit  growing?  Will  it 
continue  to  accelerate  the  pace  at  which  men  live,  and 
diminish  the  control  by  which  they  are  guided?  Will  it 
weaken  more  and  more  the  bonds  of  reverence,  and  mu- 
tual consideration,  and  household  fidelity,  and  civic 
virtue,  until  the  states  which  have  been  civilized  by  the 
sanctions  of  love  and  the  convictions  of  duty  are  whirled 
backward,  by  the  passion  of  self-indulgence,  into  the 
barbarism  of  luxurious  pleasure  or  the  anarchy  of  social 
strife? 

These  are  the  questions  that  rise  to  trouble  us  in  our 
moments  of  despondency  and  foreboding.  But  I  think 
that  it  is  neither  wise  nor  brave  to  give  them  an  answer 
of  despair.  Two  are  stronger  than  one.  The  growth 
of  justice  and  of  kindness,  I  guess,  will  in  the  long  run 
prevail  over  the  decline  of  self-restraint,  and  the  selfish, 
reckless  spirit  will  be  overcome. 

At  all  events,  when  Christmas  comes  I  shall  sit  down 
with  John  Friendly  to  enjoy  its  cheer,  rather  than  with 


364  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

any  sour  pessimist.  For  one  thing  is  sure.  The  hope 
of  humanity  lies  in  the  widening,  deeping  influence  of 
that  blessed  Life  which  was  born  nineteen  hundred  years 
ago  in  Bethlehem.  The  Lesson  which  that  Life  teaches 
us  is  that  the  only  way  to  make  the  world  better  is  for 
each  man  to  do  his  best. 
Christmas,  1904! 

THE  GREAT  RELAPSE 

Christmas,  1920 !  Sixteen  years  have  passed  since  the 
foregoing  pages  were  written.  Between  them  and  now 
what  dread  disaster  has  befallen  our  too  cheerful  hopes, 
what  hideous  war-clouds  have  shadowed  the  world  and 
drenched  it  with  blood  and  tears ! 

Whence  came  this  tempest  of  wrath?  Out  of  the 
depths  of  human  nature,  not  yet  delivered  from  the  lusts 
and  passions  that  war  within  us  and  make  wars  around 
us:  out  of  the  reckless  greed  of  our  civilization  centering 
its  efforts  on  material  riches  and  luxury  and  neglecting 
the  discipline  of  the  mind  and  heart:  and  especially  out 
of  the  violent  "will  to  power"  of  the  German  Empire, 
ready  to  set  fire  to  the  world  in  order  to  gain  its  dominion. 
These  were  the  sources  of  the  vast  world-war  of  1914- 
1918,  whose  after-flames  still  burn  along  the  borders  and 
whose  ashes  cover  the  face  of  the  earth. 

How  immense  the  cost  of  that  conflagration!  Eight 
million  human  lives  swiftly  blotted  out  in  battle,  and  as 
many  more  slowly  devoured  by  misery  and  heart-break, 
disease  and  starvation;  two  hundred  billion  dollars'  worth 
of  world-wealth  squandered  in  destruction  or  desperately 
spent  in  defense;  fair  cities  and  famous  temples  laid  in 
ruin,  fertile  lands  left  bare  and  desolate;  the  health  of 
the  race  impaired  by  pestilence  and  famine;  the  mind  of 
millions  poisoned  by  wild  hatreds,  shaken  by  swift  tu- 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  365 

mults  of  unrest,  shell-shocked  into  a  state  of  dull  sus- 
picion, anxious  fear,  and  sudden  anger  that  comes  near 
insanity, — what  a  frightful  price  mankind  has  had  to 
pay!  And  for  what?  For  nothing,  absolutely  nothing; 
unless, — unless  indeed  it  was  for  liberty  and  a  ksson. 
Liberty  to  begin  again,  trying  to  make  the  world  better: 
the  lesson  that  it  never  can  be  done  until  to  a  clearer 
ideal  of  justice  and  a  deeper  impulse  of  mercy,  mankind 
shall  join  a  greater  power  of  self-control. 

That  was  the  point  at  which  the  slow  progress  of  the 
race, — a  real  advance  by  small  degrees,  though  far  from 
perfection, — that  was  the  point  where  the  process  of 
peaceful  development  broke  down  in  1914,  and  the  world 
was  plunged  into  the  awful  pit  of  strife  and  the  red  mire 
of  slaughter.  I  was  wrong  in  saying  that  "two  are 
stronger  than  one."  My  calculation  that  because  the 
sense  of  justice  and  the  motive  of  kindness  were  increas- 
ing all  must  go  well,  was  too  hasty,  too  easy,  too  abso- 
lute. At  a  given  hour,  for  a  certain  time,  one  may  be 
stronger  than  two. 

"  Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole  array 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away." 

It  was  the  lack  of  self-control  in  German  ambition,  it 
was  the  reckless  and  ruthless  urge  of  self-aggrandizement 
and  the  lust  of  mondial  dominion,  that  swept  away  the 
restraints  of  righteousness  and  silenced  the  scruples  of 
compassion  and  made  Germany  will  war  to  win  world- 
power.  "Upon  the  heads  of  her  diplomats  and  princes 
are  the  blood  and  guilt  of  it."  But  the  burden  and  the 
sorrow  and  the  calamity  of  it  press  heavily  upon  all  the 
nations. 

Yet  in  our  dejection  and  the  revulsion  of  our  minds,  in 
our  shock  of  dismay  that  such  a  thing  could  happen  in 
the  twentieth  century,  we  must  beware  of  falling  into  the 


366  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

dark  exaggerations  of  despair.  This  latest  war  was  in- 
deed the  largest,  but  I  do  not  believe  it  was  the  most 
terrible,  cruel,  and  barbarous  known  to  history.  Let  us 
be  sane  in  our  judgments  and  seek  not  to  claim  a  false 
pre-eminence  for  our  own  time  even  in  evil  things.  Much 
that  mankind  has  gained  through  the  centuries  in  miti- 
gation of  the  concomitant  horrors  of  warfare  was  for- 
feited to  the  Teutonic  theory  of  Schrecklichkeit,  and  the 
Allies  themselves  were  not  free  from  reproach  in  their 
methods  of  reprisal.  Poison-gas,  submarines,  aerial  bom- 
bardments are  indiscriminate  and  horrible  weapons.  But 
after  all  there  were  some  things  in  ancient  warfare  which 
were  not  practised,  for  very  shame,  in  this  great  conflict 
of  arms. 

Prisoners  of  war  were  not  chained  in  the  galleyc,  nor 
decapitated  by  thousands.  Wicked  things  were  done  in 
Louvain  and  Dinant  and  Lille  and  elsewhere.  But  rich 
captured  cities  were  not  given  over  to  death  and  destruc- 
tion. When  Sulla  took  Athens  the  massacre  of  the  in- 
habitants was  so  fierce  that  the  blood  filled  the  market- 
place like  a  pool  and  ran  out  of  the  city  gate.  When 
Titus  destroyed  Jerusalem,  when  the  Goths  sacked  Rome, 
nothing  was  spared.  When  "The  Spanish  Fury"  fell  on 
Antwerp  in  1576,  eight  thousand  people  were  murdered 
in  three  days.  Nothing  comparable  with  that  happened 
in  Belgium  or  Northern  France  in  the  late  war.  It  was 
bad,  unspeakably  bad,  but  it  was  not  as  bad  as  in  the 
olden  time.  If  it  had  been,  half  the  population  of  Europe 
would  have  perished. 

International  law,  though  often  broken  and  evaded  by 
the  Germans,  was  never  wholly  denied.  They  even 
promised  to  make  good  their  transgressions  when  they 
had  won  their  victory !  The  blackest  page  of  the  whole 
history  was  the  massacre  of  the  Armenians  by  the  Turks, 
— the  unforgetable  crime  of  an  unpardonable  despotism. 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  367 

Through  all  this  long  and  ghastly  strife  the  Red  Cross 
went  calmly  and  bravely  on  its  errands  of  mercy  to  friend 
and  foe,  ministering  to  the  sick  and  wounded,  seeking 
with  a  divine  inconsistency  to  help  with  one  hand  of 
civilization  those  whom  the  other  had  smitten  down. 

Nor  may  we  forget,  amid  our  natural  abhorrence  of  the 
repulsive  realities  of  war,  that  there  was  a  real  and  essen- 
tial difference  between  the  two  sides  of  the  combat. 
Germany  was  the  actual  assailant, — she  attacked,  she 
invaded,  fighting  for  the  extension  of  her  empire,  for  "a 
place  in  the  sun,"  which  she  claimed  as  needful  for  her 
fuller  self-realization.  The  Allies  were  on  the  defensive. 
They  fought  on  their  own  soil  to  maintain  their  liberties, 
their  rights,  their  honor,  and  their  life. 

Now  it  is  profoundly  unreasonable  to  ignore  the  vital 
difference  between  these  two  kinds  of  war,  and  so  to  put 
them  on  a  level,  either  in  the  same  condemnation.  Even 
those  who  hold  the  absolute  pacifist  theory  that  physical 
resistance  to  evil  is  never  permissible,  must  still  admit 
that  the  aggressor  has  a  far  deeper  guilt  than  the  man 
who  withstands  aggression.  On  the  other  hand,  we  who 
believe  that  the  gift  of  strength  carries  an  obligation  to 
use  it  for  the  protection  of  assaulted  virtue,  imperilled 
freedom,  and  justice  endangered  or  openly  attacked,  must 
hold  that  men  who  take  arms  in  such  a  cause  are  soldiers 
of  the  right,  "thrice-armed"  because  they  "have  their 
quarrel  just."  Believing  this,  I  regard  the  victory  of  the 
Allies  and  America  in  the  late  war  as  in  the  main,  (and 
despite  all  minor  drawbacks  and  delinquencies,)  a  great 
moral  victory  and  a  proof  that  the  world  is  growing  bet- 
ter. If  any  one  doubts  this  let  him  consider  the  alter- 
native; let  him  read  the  programmes  which  the  Lords  of 
Potsdam  issued  before  and  during  their  mad  adventure; 
let  him  think  carefully  what  the  triumph  of  the  German. 
Empire  would  have  meant  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  See- 


368  THE  REFLECTIVE  ESSAY 

ing  that  this  great  disaster  did  not  come  to  pass,  let  us 
thank  God  and  take  courage. 

But  these  considerations  are  only  rays  of  light  gilding 
the  cloud  of  danger,  distress,  and  apprehension  that  still 
hangs  over  us.  Will  the  world  ever  be  much  better  un- 
less we  get  rid  of  the  anachronism  of  war  as  the  arbiter 
of  disputes  between  nations?  May  not  this  method  of 
violence  and  unreason  at  any  moment  thrust  us  back 
from  the  path  of  progress,  destroy  our  dearly  bought 
gains  of  justice  and  mercy,  and,  overthrowing  the  shaken 
pillars  of  civilization,  bring  back  upon  the  world  the  dark 
and  shelterless  night  of  barbarism  ? 

Undoubtedly  it  may,  and  probably  it  will,  unless  men 
of  good-will  unite  their  efforts  everywhere,  and  work  to- 
gether to  prevent  war  and  to  establish  peace  on  strong 
foundations. 

Two  things  will  certainly  help  the  wounded  world  to 
recover  from  its  great  relapse  and  move  forward  again  on 
the  path  of  progress.  First,  we  must  make  a  clear  and 
definite  endeavor  to  bring  a  regulative,  disciplinary  influ- 
ence into  the  progress  of  education.  We  must  try  to 
bring  up  a  new  generation  to  understand  and  respect,  not 
only  the  sanctity  of  justice  and  the  beauty  of  human- 
kindness,  but  also  the  necessity  of  self-control.  This 
work  can  only  be  done  through  individuals,  in  the  home, 
the  school,  the  church.  It  must  be  plain  and  patient, 
watchful  and  sympathetic,  loving  and  uncompromising, 
satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  the  creation  of  a  finer, 
stronger,  more  self-restrained  man, — 

"King  of  himself  and  servant  of  mankind." 

Such  men  will  do  their  best  to  avoid  and  avert  war. 

Second,  we  must  carry  the  principle  of  self-control, 
(which  is  so  essential  in  the  social  relations  of  the  com- 
munity that  we  protect  and  uphold  it  by  law,)  into  the 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE  369 

international  relations  of  the  world.  We  must  learn  to 
think  of  national  sovereignty  in  terms  of  self-restraint  as 
well  as  in  terms  of  action.  We  must  interpose  every 
possible  barrier  between  the  cold  ambition  of  rulers,  or 
the  hot  passions  of  the  multitude,  and  those  aggressive 
policies  and  deeds  which  thrust  war  upon  an  unwilling 
world.  We  must  devise  practical  means  by  which  the 
cause  of  countries  aggrieved  or  injured  may  have  a 
prompt  appeal  to  an  impartial  council  of  arbitration,  or 
a  fair  and  speedy  trial  before  a  high  court  of  international 
law. 

But,  you  say,  we  already  have  those  things,  at  least  in 
outline.  Well  then,  all  that  we  need  is  to  make  them 
work,  and  to  put  behind  them  the  combined  force,  the 
concerted  powers  of  those  free  nations  that  believe  in 
justice,  mercy,  and  self-control,  as  the  vital  elements  of 
human  progress. 

In  this  good  hope  we  labor.  We  believe  that  the  world 
has  grown  better.  We  confess  that  it  has  suffered,  ap- 
parently, after  the  weariness  of  a  great  trial  the  discour- 
agement of  a  great  relapse.  But  we  set  our  will  and  our 
work  towards  «  great  recovery,  in  which  the  world  shall  grow 
better  yet. 


READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS 


READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS 

Abbott,  C.  C.: 

Days  Out  of  Doors. 

Freedom  of  the  Fields. 
Abbott,  Lyman: 

Problems  of  Life. 

Spirit  of  Democracy. 
Addison,  Joseph: 

The  Spectator. 
Arnold,  Matthew: 

Essays  in  Criticism. 
Atlantic  Classics: 

Essays  by  various  authors. 

Bacon,  Francis: 

Essays. 
Baker,  Ray  S.  (David  Grayson) : 

Adventures  in  Contentment. 

The  Friendly  Road. 
Barrie,  J.  M.: 

Margaret  Ogilvy. 

My  Lady  Nicotine. 
Beebe,  William: 

Jungle  Peace. 

Edge  of  the  Jungle. 
Bennett,  Arnold: 

How  to  Live  on  Twenty-four  Hours  a  Day. 

Literary  Taste  and  How  to  Form  It. 

Self  and  Self  Management. 

The  Human  Machine. 
Benson,  A.  C.: 

At  Large. 

Beside  Still  Waters. 

From  a  College  Window. 

The  Altar  Fire. 

The  Silent  Isle. 

373 


374  READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS 

Bergengren,  Ralph: 

The  Comforts  of  Home. 

The  Perfect  Gentleman. 
Birrell,  Augustine: 

Men,  Women  and  Books. 

Obiter  Dicta. 
Black,  Hugh: 

Friendship. 

Work. 
Bollee,  Frank: 

At  the  North  of  Bearcamp  Water. 

Land  of  Lingering  Snow. 
Brewer,  D.  J.: 

American  Citizenship. 
Briggs,  L.  B.  R.: 

School,  College  and  Character. 
Browne,  Thomas: 

Religio  Medici. 
Bryce,  James: 

Hindrances  to  Good  Citizenship. 
Burroughs,  John: 

Accepting  the  Universe. 

Indoor  Studies. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey. 

Signs  and  Seasons. 

Wake-Robin. 

Winter  Sunshine. 

Carlyle,  Thomas: 

Heroes  and  Hero-Worship. 

Sartor  Resartus. 
Chesterton,  G.  K: 

A  Miscellany  of  Men. 

Defense  of  Nonsense. 
Cowley,  Abraham: 

Discourses. 
Croly,  H.D.: 

Promise  of  American  Life. 
Crothers,  S.  McC.: 

Among  Friends. 

By  the  Christmas  Fir«. 


READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS  375 

The  Gentle  Reader. 
The  Pardoner's  Wallet. 
Curtis,  G.  W.: 

From  the  Easy  Chair. 
Prue  and  I. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas: 

English  Mail  Coach. 

Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe. 
Dobson,  Austin: 

Eighteenth  Century  Vignettes. 

Eaton,  W.  P.: 

Barn  Doors  and  By  Ways. 

Green  Trails  and  Upland  Pastures. 
Eliot,  C.  W.: 

American  Contributions  to  Civilization. 

The  Durable  Satisfactions  of  Life. 
Emerson,  R.  W.: 

Conduct  of  Life. 

Essays,  First  and  Second  Series. 

Society  and  Solitude. 

Galsworthy,  John: 

A  Sheaf. 

Another  Sheaf. 

Inn  of  Tranquillity. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver: 

Citizen  of  the  World. 
Gosse,  Edmund: 

Gossip  in  a  Library. 

Portraits  and  Sketches. 
Griggs,  E.  H.: 

Self  Culture. 

Hazlitt,  William: 

Lectures  on  English  Comic  Writers. 

Lectures  on  English  Poets. 

Table  Talk. 
Hearn,  Lafcadio: 

A  Japanese  Miscellany. 

Out  of  the  East. 


376  READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS 

Holliday,  R.  C.: 

Walking-Stick  Papers. 
Holmes,  0.  W.: 

Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table. 

Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table. 

Professor  at  the  Breakfast-Table. 
Howells,  W.  D.: 

Criticism  and  Fiction. 

London  Films. 

My  Literary  Passions. 

Suburban  Sketches. 
Hudson,  W.H.: 

Naturalist  in  La  Plata. 
Hunt,  Leigh: 

Men,  Women  and  Books. 

Table  Talk. 

Wit  and  Humor. 


Irving,  Washington: 
Sketch  Book. 


James,  William: 

Talks  to  Teachers. 

The  Will  to  Believe. 
Jeffries,  Richard: 

Story  of  My  Heart. 
Jerome,  J.  K.: 

Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow. 

Lamb,  Charles: 

Essays  of  Elia,  First  and  Second  Series. 
Lang,  Andrew: 

Letters  to  Dead  Authors. 
Leacock,  Stephen: 

Literary  Lapses. 
Lowell,  J.  R.: 

Among  My  Books. 

Fireside  Travels. 

My  Study  Windows. 


READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS  377 


Lucas,  E.  V.: 

A  Little  of  Everything. 
Character  and  Comedy 
Cloud  and  Silver. 
Fireside  and  Sunshine. 

Mabie,  H.W.: 

Books  and  Culture. 

My  Study  Fire. 
Macaulay,  T.  B.: 

Literary  and  Historical  Essays. 
Martin,  E.  S.: 

Windfalls  of  Observation. 
Matthews,  Brander: 

Americans  of  the  Future. 

Inquiries  and  Opinions. 
Milne,  A.  A.: 

Not  That  It  Matters. 
Mitchell,  D.  G.: 

Dream  Life. 

Reveries  of  a  Bachelor. 
Montaigne,  Michel: 

Essays. 
More,  P.  E.: 

Shelburne  Essays. 
Morley,  Christopher: 

Mince  Pie. 

Pipefuls. 

Newman,  John  H. : 

Historical  Sketches. 

Idea  of  a  University. 
Newton,  A.  E.: 

Amenities  of  Book  Collecting. 
Nicholson,  Meredith: 

The  Provincial  American. 

The  Valley  of  Democracy. 

The  Man  in  the  Street. 

Pater,  Walter  H.: 

Imaginary  Portraits 
The  Renaissance. 


378  READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS 

Repplier,  Agnes: 

Americans  and  Others. 

Books  and  Men. 

Compromises. 

Essays  in  Idleness. 

Points  of  View. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore: 

American  Ideals. 

History  as  Literature,  and  Other  Essays. 
Ruskin,  John: 

Crown  of  Wild  Olive. 

Frondes  Agrestes. 

Sesame  and  Lilies. 

Steele,  Richard: 

The  Tatler. 
Stephen,  Leslie: 

Hours  in  a  Library. 
Stevenson,  R.  L. : 

Across  the  Plains. 

Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books. 

Memories  and  Portraits. 

The  Amateur  Emigrant. 

Virginibus  Puerisque. 
Strunsky,  Simeon: 

Belshazzar  Court. 

Post-Impressions. 

The  Patient  Observer. 

Thru  the  Looking-Glass. 

Thackeray,  W.  M.: 

English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Roundabout  Papers. 
Thoreau,  H.  D.: 

Cape  Cod. 

Excursions. 

Walden. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry: 

Camp  Fires  and  Guide  Posts. 

Days  Off. 

Essays  in  Application. 


READING  LIST  OF  ESSAYS  379 


Fisherman's  Luck. 
Little  Rivers. 

Warner,  C.  D.: 

As  We  Go. 

As  We  Were  Saying. 
Wilson,  Woodrow: 

Mere  Literature. 

When  a  Man  Comes  to  Himself. 
Woodbeny,  G.  E.: 

The  Appreciation  of  Literature. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


